


Mitaen

by Nivvets777



Category: Original Work
Genre: Master/Slave, Multi, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:58:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nivvets777/pseuds/Nivvets777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a year after Paul is kidnapped from a small town in the USA and impressed into service by an alien military. While navigating a confusing political landscape, balancing his own public image, and quashing his own morality for the sake of survival, he must attempt to make his way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All These Goods Things

K, so all the names and italicized words are spoken with Spanish pronunciation. Just thought that might clear up some confusion in the future.Forward

A= ah

E= aye

I= eeey

O= oh

U= ooh

LL= Yah

 

 

I look into the mirror, noticing all the changes that have been effected on me over the last year. Thinner, I think, and somehow... Darker. I'm tanner, that's for sure. Much more time outside. Something else, though, something deeper than the skin. Maybe it's my eyes. They're shifting slowly, everyday, to something newer. Something alien. A year ago, when I was first brought to this place, they were a bright blue hazel. Everyday, though, they move closer and closer to a deep blue green. This is typical, I'm told. With every shade they change, it seems like the color drains out of the world a bit more. I'm told this, too, is normal. All a part of the natural processes that have been triggered in me. All of them just another way of making me into the Ideal Soldier.

Not that I'll see much of the battle field. I'm the ceremonial sword, pretty, worth amounts untold, but never meant to be used. I know I should be happy, I know I should be grateful, since a life on the sidelines is a life of safety, of privilege. But a life on the sidelines is a life without the possibility of release, without the chance of finally seeing the fruits of my labors coming to fruition. A life without fight is a life without a chance of escape.

A knock at my door stirs me from my ruminations. I sigh and cross this, my, room. I open the door to see a familiar face, one of the only faces I've grown to look forward to here in this place. One of the only faces I can trust.

“Good morning, sir. How are you today?” Sarin asks, curtsying, bright and perky as always. Her blue eyes sparkle in just the right way, almost distracting from the way they never blink, and hold no more in their depths than the reflection of my unshaven face in the soft light of early morning. She is wearing a thin blue dress, probably made of cotton, cut in such a way that shows off all of her... Assets. Typical slave garb. She is anything but, though.

I grunt in reply to her question and open my door all the way. I walk back over to my shaving mirror, trusting her to enter and make herself at home. I tug off my shirt and begin making a lather to shave with. I take the brush and whisk it through the shaving soap, and then spread it over my cheeks. When I've applied a thin, even, layer, I hear Sarin's voice from behind me.

“So, what's on the agenda today? After all, this is your anniversary, no?” I see her behind me, sitting on my bed and swinging her feet. She always seems so innocent. I know better, but I still can't help but smile at her energy. No matter what, her cheer is tireless. More than once, she's pulled me out of a funk or bought of ennui. She has been the one constant in my life over the past year. My one rock.

I grunt again, knowing she'll read my silence as easily as other might read my words.

“So, pretty standard, huh? Go to class, go to drill, and then present to the Board? You could always just skip classes. That's kind of a tradition on people's anniversaries, you know. That way, they aren't preoccupied when the Council sends for them.”

A third grunt and a shake of the head ends that line of questioning. I pick up the straight razor, sharpening it on the leather strop that lies next to the sink. It's silly, but sometimes it feels like my morning routine, shaving, showering, talking to Sarin, is the only thing keeping me sane. I need it, and I'll be damned if I give that up along with everything else that might be taken away from me today.

“So, are you nervous?” Sarin asks, never one to be silent for too long. She's trying to draw me out, out of my little shell, trying to get me to smile, to talk, to show some life. I'll never be able to thank her enough for that. So, I decide to answer her, with words this time.

“Of course I'm nervous. Today decides the rest of my life. If I fail, I lose this room, this life, even you.” I stop, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. Somehow, saying the words makes this whole thing seem so much more real. “Hell, they might even try to take away my _suba_ , and no matter how many times I've practiced resisting, I can't help but worry it won't be enough.” I move the razor a bit too hastily and nick the corner of my jaw bone. I hiss at the sudden flair of pain. Sarin clucks her tongue at me and stands up. She walks over to me and places a kiss on my jaw, right over the cut. I feel her tongue make contact, just once, and the pain is gone. As is the blood, and any sign of there ever having been an imperfection there at all. This is the most jarring thing for me, the most terrifying change, the perfection. My skin is perfect, nary a blemish, and no matter how out out of shape I get, my stomach never moves past the “flab” stage, and even that tends to disappear with a visit to the Academy tailor. I never thought I'd see the day I would miss my belly fat.

Sarin wraps her arms around my shoulders, skillfully avoiding my face, which is still half covered in the fluffy white colloid. “Don't worry so much. You wouldn't have been marked if you hadn't had the right stuff in you.” Her right hand spreads over my heart, pressing into the skin of my chest. Her left reaches up to grip the rough wooden cross I wear around my neck. “This, right here, is what will guide you. Just breath deep, and believe. You're always talking of this 'One True God' of yours, and how he can do anything, and how he loves you unconditionally, and yet you always seem to prepare for the worst. Just trust. Any god that loves you that much will take good care of you.”

I sigh and lower my chin to rest on her hands. “Why the hell are you so smart?” I ask her.

She slides her hands back and away, skipping back over to the bed. “Because you're so dim. Like I said, you're worried about nothing. You're a natural, a revolutionary. Even one of your rejects could probably get you admitted to an internship, if not more. I mean, that gun that launched, oh what was it... Gumballs! That was genius.” She grinned at me, nothing but enthusiasm.

I've finished shaving by this point, and wipe my face with a towel. Ah, the gumball gun. Now _that_ was a fun project. Writing the script wasn't fun, but testing it out sure was. As I walk over to the shower closet, I continue to talk with her. “Yeah, that may be true, but I'm supposed to be developing military grade weapons, not a fun new toy for Sally and Walter. I doubt that the gumball gun would qualify.”

I step in the little alcove set into the south wall and pull the divider in front of the gap. It's not like Sarin can see me, or would care if she could, but I still like to pretend that there's some privacy in my life.

I hear Sarin bumping around in my room. “Well, don't be so quick to sell yourself short. I mean, with just a few modifications, maybe you could make the gumballs into, like, sticky bombs or something, to jam enemy vehicles wheels or something. Use your imagination.”

I shook my head as I mixed the soap power in with the bowl of warm water that had appeared, magically, on the table that was set waste high inside the shower notch. When I had gotten the right consistency, I began to coat my body with it. For some odd reason, Sarin had deemed it appropriate to get me mentholated soap. Soon, as the soap soaked into my skin, I feel as though someone has dumped a bucket of ice water on me. As I wait the customary amount of time, to let the soap work it's magic, I think of what Sarin has just said. It actually made a lot of sense, to change something silly like that into something useful, for those above me if not for myself. It also fits in with another thing I have been thinking about, one that we would have to be a bit more careful talking about.

I'm sufficiently tingly by now, and reach over to pull the chord to my left, releasing the first torrent of water down onto my body. I scrub vigorously, trying to wash as much of the soap off as I can in one go. When I can remove no more, I reach to my right and pull on the chord to my right, slowly this time, and feel the stream of water fall down onto me. I wash the rest of the minty soap off, marveling at how clean I feel, totally stripped of contamination. I remove the divider and step out in the shower room proper. The cool air hits me, and I quickly grab a towel, drying myself off quickly. I wrap the towel around my waist and walk back into my room.

Sarin is sitting on my bed, her back to me, thankfully. “So, what did you think of the soap? I got it special for today.”

I roll my eyes and eye the clothes she's laid out for me today. Black undershirt, with a dark blue button down shirt to go over that. My purple vest, the one that marks me as a Mage, and the white sash on the left arm that marks me as a student, lies next to them. Also, folded neatly to their left, is a pair of blue jeans, a pair of socks, and the long strip of cloth that passes for underwear here. Pretty standard wear, even if a bit understated for my first anniversary on Mitean. Sarin must get that I really didn't feel much like celebrating. At least someone does.

I start to dress. “Yes. I did. It made my balls tingle though. That was odd.”

Sarin let out a choked, surprised laugh, and I grinned. It's not often I can catch her off guard like that, so I thoroughly enjoy it when I do.

“Well, it did. It was, like, full on tingles up in here. Makes me wonder what they really put in it.”

She laughs again, and spins around, coming to a stop sitting cross legged on the bed, facing me. I notice her eyes grow bright for a moment, and she blinks, once, and the room flashes. I take a surprised step backwards, caught off guard by the intensity of the spell. All around the room, slinging to the walls, the ceiling, and enveloping the furniture, is a downy white light, like the sun through wax paper. A soundproofing spell.

“So, what is it that you need to talk to me about?” She smiles. “Don't act surprised. I don't need

to be able to see you to see that you're not saying something. And hurry up. You need to be in class in an hour.”

I know I should be scared, or at least uncomfortable, that she knows me that well, but I'm not, probably because that's kind of her job.

“So, no one's listening?” I ask, just to be careful. She pouts her lip out and huffs indignantly. How dare I question her competence. “Well, sorry. Just making sure. I'm thinking about switching my tribute.” I cringe a little, waiting for the coming rebuke.

See, when a student, like me, applies to become an Apprentice, as I have, they need to go through a series of trials and tests to prove themselves worthy. For Armorers, like me, one of those tests is to invent a brand new item, mech or maj, that no one has ever made before, and present it as an offering to the Armorer Council. If they like it, you're in. If not, you're cast out of the Guild Hall, once and for all, and that's it. Traditionally, the student gives their best creation, as a sign of commitment to the Hall. Anything else borders of heresy.

Sarin regards me with her unwavering, unblinking gaze for a long moment, and then she smiles. “Nice! I knew you had a back bone.” I relax, glad she's going along with my idea. “I have to ask, though. Why? Why switch it now?”

“Because,” I reply, “Someday, I want to be more than an Armorer, make my way through the system till I'm on a Venturing team, and starting off my professional career by giving them everything I've worked for, my best kept secret, is a dangerous precedent. Besides, a gluegunner would be a pretty kick-ass addition to militant arms.” I grin at her, hoping she understands that I'm giving her the props for the idea.

She smiles back and then looks down at her watch. She lets out a little squeak. “We are so late. Lets get going.”

She snaps her fingers and the white lights around the room rush to her, sliding back under her skin quickly and easily. Watching it makes me queasy, but also makes me tingly with excitement. Someday, I'll be able to do that. If I live that long. If I make it through today.

Sarin grabs my book bag in one hand and my arm in the other and drags me out the door. And so the day begins.

 

As we navigate the twists and turns that lead around and, ultimately, out of the dormitories, I can't help but notice the changes in demeanor that Sarin and I go through. Sarin, usually erect and energetic, bright and spazzy, slowly takes her usual place at my left hip, head down, steps shuffling. I, on the other hand, grow taller, shoulders pulling back, chest out. I fix my face into an imperious sneer, never truly looking anyone in the eye, always looking down on them. I pass people in the halls, people who call out greetings and such, and I simply nod in response, if I put out that much effort at all. I'm always shocked, and a little horrified, at how easily I slip into that persona. That mask means survival, though, so I wear it everyday. Weakness, here, means death. I have to be strong, even when I don't want to be.

Today is Jueves, or Thursday, so I have... Language 1. If this had been a normal High School, I could've tested out. I've been fluent in the local language, Espenia, for at least the last six months, and passable for three months before that.. It's really just a corruption of Spanish. Same form, with only a couple of changes to the conjugations and such. Plus, Sarin had helped me acclimate quickly. But, this isn't a normal High School. Here, I have to go through the class “just cuz”. So, I make the most of it. Mostly, I spend my time finding ways to make the other students uncomfortable. Lot's of awkward eye contact.

Today, more than usual, I reflect on the place I've been calling home for 12 months now. Military Institute, as it's called, is a huge, sprawling castle, made of red sandstone, or something close to it. The halls are huge, airy. Everything is built to impress, from the scale of... Well, everything, to the gold plating that adorns the trophy cases, which are filled with wonders from countless countries across countless worlds. Hundreds of people stream by on either side, their personal slaves following in a subdued manner. More people walk in and out of holes in the walls, animals fly through the air above my head and scamper by underfoot, soldiers practice in the yard, and guns boom day and night. It is everything that a war-mongering nation would want, a statement to the rest of the world saying “Here we are, deal with it.”

The fact is, though, that no matter how pretty this place is, it is a cage. A beautiful, fantastical cage, and one that I've chosen to live in, but a cage none the less. I haven't set foot outside the grounds since I arrived.

“I need to drop by my Armory, to make some modifications to my tribute. Think I could skip a day of Language?” I ask Sarin, keeping my head facing forward, eyes uninterested. It's a pain, pretending that I don't care, that she can't think, but a necessary action. She's assured me many a time, “Don't worry about it, this is my job. Someday, you'll be thankful.” She had proven that time after time.

I felt her assent, like a warmth on my back, mixed with a bit of amusement. She knows as well as I do how easily the language comes to me now. “Is there any time to see Breda before the Ceremony?” I ask. Dissent, a cool breeze. I attempt to send back disappointment, getting mixed results. I know Sarin has received the message when I feel the soothing presence of Assurance on my cheek. It'll be OK.

I nod and turn into the hallway that leads to the Armory department. I spot a friend of mine, Enrique, up ahead. His slave, Debina, follows behind him. She is dressed not in a slaves blue dress, but something a little longer, showing less of her body. Keeping her body for Enrique's eyes only. His bag is over her shoulder, making her sag under the weight. I know I should be more disgusted with the slavery practices here, but I can't bring myself to care for the most part. As the color around me drains, so does my involvement with pretty much everyone. It's nice at times. As the old adage goes, “The less you care, the happier you are.”

“Hey, _Que pasa?!_ ” Enrique (or Kike) calls, running up to me. Debina follows at a more subdued pace, stopping a respectable distance back. She looks up only briefly, acknowledging Sarin, and then looks down. Enrique does the same. These two are part of a very select few that know Sarin's true status. They know better than to say anything, but even if they didn't, they're not the type who would. Enrique is... A little too scattered to worry about the confusing political games of power and reputation that seem so popular here. Probably why we get along.

“Eh, mucho nada.” I answer, in Espenia. “I'm heading to my locker to pick something up. Wanna come?” Enrique smiles, and nods enthusiastically.

As we continue toward the Armory Dept, Enrique produces a steady stream of chatter, talking about everything, and nothing. He wears the black, mammoth-leather vest of his profession, with the matching gloves thrust through the wide brown belt at his waist. His pants and shirt are the same brown, his boots a dull black. With his big eyes and slightly big teeth, it's hard to take him seriously at tomes. Especially with his sandy brown hair sticking up at all angles, slightly charred here and there, a testament to his vocation. He's a Keeper, the sect of our population that works with the war monsters the Army breeds. Enrique works with the dragons, specifically. They tend to like him, which is rare, since the abhor most humans. He still ends up slightly toasted every now and then.

We round the corner into the Armory proper, and Enrique gives Debina the hand signal to hang back and wait here, since everything past this point is Guildsman's property, and thus protected from public eyes. I do the same, for show. Sarin knows the rules of social etiquette far better than I ever will.

We walk down the hallway, a duet instead of a quartet. This hallway is red like everything else, big like everything else, lined on both sides with door after door, all a uniform matte black. They sport no handle, or any visible means of opening. Only a golden number emblazoned at the very top, and a small symbol next to that. As I scan the numbers on the doors, something Enrique says catches my attention.

“So, you nervous for your trial?” I hadn't thought he'd remember. “I don't know what you guys have to do to pass, but ours is no picnic.” Each sect has their own trials, and they're supposed to be secret. I have a feeling they're anything but. I continue scanning the doors. My number is coming up.

“So,” I begin, “what _do_ you Keepers have to do to get an Apprenticeship? Climb a mountain to snatch an egg from some golden clawed eagle? Calm some elephant-monkey down after someone takes it's candy?” I'm only half sarcastic. Some of the traditions on this world are down right bizarre. Like, whenever you meet someone important, you have to kneel, turn in a half circle, and then stand again. Or, if you're ever served shell fish, you have to lift the dish and sniff it, as loudly and longly as you can.

Kike looks at me with what can only be described as suspicion, but I know it's in jest. “You asking me to divulge trade secrets? I am shocked. I am appalled. I am disgusted. I am wondering what took you so long to ask.” He gives me his typical idiot grin, exposing his sarcasm, and leans against the wall next to my door. I just shrug in response.

 

**1408**

 

This is my number, the numeral that almost literally means me. I always shudder at the thought, even as my heart sings with the beauty of it. I walk up to the door and place my left hand on the place where one might usually find the handle, and place my right hand directly across from that. Then, taking a deep breath, I speak three words.

They flow out of my mouth and down my arms, leaving warm, golden trails wherever they touch. Finally, they touch the door, and I feel a pressure build, just under my palms. Then, it is gone. The door pushes open as easily as any other, and I step inside.

 

 

I take a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of locking, protection and secrecy. This room is mine. Completely and totally mine. I savor the feeling of it for a moment. Then, I step aside to admit Kike inside.

The room, my personal Armory, is simple enough. The dimensions measure about 25 feet by 20 feet. The ceiling is quite low, considering the enormity of every other room in this place. I can reach up and touch it if I feel so inclined. There is a small table in the middle, with papers scattered every whichaway on it. Three walls are lined with nothing but cubicles, in every shape and size. Inside these cubicles are tools, papers, and all my projects to date. The wall to my right is adorned in cabinets. Everything is a sterile gray metal.

Kike makes a small sound in his throat, something between a snort and a cough. I catch a whiff of surprise, and excitement, and then Kike launches himself through the door. He starts chattering at a mile a minute, touching everything he can, oohing and aahing at my tools.

“Wow! I'veneverbeeninsideanArmorybefore. It'ssocoollooking. Wow!! Youmadeallthese? Howlongdidittake? Where'dyougettheidea's? What'sthis?” Espenia, like it's mother-tongue, is a swiftly flowing language, but when Kike gets like this it's closer to an avalanche. I laugh a little at his uninhibited wonder, since open emotion is somewhat rare here. I try to answer his questions as best as I can, but I can't get a word in edgewise, so I just let him calm down on his own. I move over to the cabinet in question and unlock it. The locks here, like so many other things, are very similar to the technology back home, and yet so alien. I press my thumb to the wax circle on the door, and wait a moment for the wax to warm. When my thumbprint is firmly in place in the wax, I twist my hand counter-clockwise, and the door pops open. Behind me, I hear Kike start to breath again. I turn around to answer a question of his and see him reaching into a cubicle on the wall opposite me. My heart kicks into overdrive.

“ _Alto_!” Stop!

He stops. He gives me a confused look, and I feel the shock in his gaze. “What's wrong?” He asks me, oblivious. I take a deep breath and walk over to him. His hand is still hovering in front of the opening, so I gently push it down, feeling the rush of skin on skin contact. I focus on the task at hand.

“You should know better than to touch just anything in a Mages work room.” I scold him. He gives me a blank look, and I return it with an exasperated huff. “Do you know what's in here?”

“No.”

“And do you know whether or not it's warded, or has a guardian? Or, better yet, what the consequences might be for triggering those spells?”

Blank look.

“Exactly. I've got a ward on this box, one that's got a rather... Toothy bite.”

Blank look.

Repeat sigh.

“Here, I'll show you. Stand over there.” I point to the open cabinet on the other side of the room. While he moves to the other side of the room, I walk to a cubicle on the wall opposite the door. I take out a matte black gun and a brown linen sack. In my eyes, the gun is sleek and deadly. In his, it is odd, and foreign. One of the biggest surprises to me when I came here was that, as far as I know, this world lacks an form of physical firepower. No guns, cannons, or gunpowder. I haven't even seen fireworks. That made me sad.

“What's that?” Kike questions. I smile, and point it at him. I pull the trigger, and there is a small pop. Kike dives for the floor. Apparently he's a little smarter than I give him credit for.

Before you gasp and start hating me, no, I did not shoot a bullet at him. Or, at least, not a metal one. What comes out of the end of the barrel is bullet-shaped, but made out of chewing gum, like a gumball. It smacks into the metal of the cubicles and instantly becomes sticky, adhering to the metal in a shapeless blob that smells faintly of citrus. Kike stands up, a little angry. I smile.

“This, my friend, is a gun.” I pronounce the word slowly, knowing he won't understand it if I go my usual speed.

“A, a _goon_?” He makes a face, like the word tastes odd in his mouth. I laugh at him and walk over to his right side.

“Yes. A _gun_.” I over enunciate it again, but know it's a lost cause. There's no 'uh' sound in Espenia, unless you punch someone in the stomach or suchlike. Tempting as that is, now probably isn't the time. “This one is filled with gumballs.”

His perplexed look may be permanently fixed on his face by the end of our little session here. “But... But, why?” His voice shows how incredulous the idea is to him. I just shrug.

“Why not?” I smile at him. “Now, watch. This is why you _ask_ before you touch.” I drop the bag on the table. Carefully, I set my feet in a shooting stance, relaxing my arms and neck muscles, and take a deep breath.. I line up the sight with the cubicle and start letting my breath out. About halfway through my lungful, I squeeze the trigger. Again, a small pop fills the room, and the candy projectile rockets through the air. This time, I hit what I'm aiming at. Or, I get pretty close.

As the gumbullet enters the mouth of the cubicle, a bright light flashes out, dying my vision a deep red. It is accompanied by a screech that leaves our ears ringing. I blink away the black spots the swim behind my eyes, trying to regain sight again. When I can see somewhat normally, I'm greeted by a very shocked Kike. His eyes are wide open, his jaw slack. His hair looks even more frazzled than usual, and there's a small twitch to his right eye. A certain smell in the air hints at just how surprised he was.

It's so funny, I can't help it. I bust out laughing. I fall forward, gripping the table as the shudders rock my body. I laugh long, and I laugh hard. I haven't laughed in awhile, with as nervous as I've been for today. All good things must come to an end though, such as when Kike decks me in the arms and starts yelling at me in rapid fire Espenia. He's going so fast, I can't understand him. I wipe the tears from my eyes and straighten up. I smile and say, “See? This is why you ask. Remember that.”

He crosses his arms and walks over to the one chair in the room and plunks himself down. I continue smiling as I set the gun down on the table and lean against the wall to catch my breath. My stomach hurts, as does my jaw, but these are good things.

“Why do you have such a strong protection on that, anyhow. Aren't you the only one who can get in here?” Kike asks, still miffed. I guess I can't blame him, since I really didn't give him all that much warning. “I mean, that could seriously hurt someone.”

I roll my eyes at him and walk over to the cubicle in question. “ _Most_ people don't go around touching random _caca_ when they're in unfamiliar, clearly magicked territory.” I debate revealing my secret to him, and decide against it. It's not that I don't trust him. It's just kind of a big secret. Hush hush, military classified type thing. I knew I needed to pacify Kike on some level, though, since I needed friends more now than ever. So, I selected another cubicle, next to the door this time, and pull out a simple cardboard box. It's filled with an assortment of object. Coins, pencils, tops, etc. I plunk the box in front of him, saying “Here. Have fun.” He eyes the box cautiously and gives me a suspicious look. “Don't worry, they won't bite. Don't play too long, though. You'll miss first hour.”

“No I won't.” Kike replies. “There's a hatching today. I'm off for all of my regular classes, but I'm on call, though. Gotta be there at a moments notice.” He picks up a plain copper coin, flipping it into the air with his thumb. He's looking at me when he does it, so it take a moment for him to realize that it hasn't fallen into his waiting hand. Instead, it is floating in the air, spinning slowly in what would have been the apex. He blinks twice, then gingerly reaches his hand out to touch the coin. As soon as his finger makes contact, the coin falls, hitting the table with a clatter. He picks it up, priming his thumb to flip it again.

“I'll be right back. Gotta grab another chair.” I tell him, but he doesn't hear me. Attention is fully focused on the coin. I shrug, and walk out of the door.

I feel the usual wards snap into place again behind me, and briefly wonder if the doors open from the inside, and whether or no the rooms are airtight. Guess I'll just have to make it back in a reasonable amount of time, lest I find out.

I back track to where we left Sarin and Debina, leaning against the wall of the outer hallway. Sarin nods at me once before lowering her head back to the customary position. Debina immediately drops her gaze to the floor. I move so I'm standing in front of Sarin, and she looks up at me. Quickly, she looks left, and then right and, when she notes that the halls are empty, drops the act. She grins and says “Seems like someone was being naughty. Was it you that triggered the ward?”

I smile, chuckling a bit at the memory. I give her a brief summary of what happened and can't help but start laughing all over again. Sarin joins me, her laugh like the sweetest bell, and I even catch Debina smiling.

“So, yeah. I'm heading to find another chair to sit in, and then I'm gonna work on my tribute until I'm called.”

Sarin's smile turns conspiratorial. “You skipping your classes?” I nod. “You'll need this then.” She unclips a small bell for the left side of her belt. She wiggles the handle a few times, showing me just how little sound it makes. She hands it to me and I give it an experimental shake. No matter how hard I swing it, nothing more than a tiny tinkle comes out.

“What's this for?” I ask, shaking the little brass cone with comical enthusiasm, eliciting another rare grin from Debina.

Sarin rolls her eyes and says, “That's the bell that'll tell you when you're being summoned to the High Council. When they want you, it'll start making noise. Then, the sound will get louder as you near their chamber. Duh.” She rolls her eyes again, making it pretty plain that I should know this already.

I nod and consider this, and a thought hits me. “Wait, how will you know when they call me?” I definitely need her there. I refuse to contemplate a situation where she is not at my side while I present my tribute.

Naturally, she has other plans. “I won't.” She thinks a moment, “Or, I won't at first. I'll find out eventually though. I tend to hear these things. Good hearing comes with the whole “Blind” thing.” I let out a little huff, trying to portray just how little I wanted to believe her. She won't hear any of it though. “Oh, shut up. You'll be fine. Like I said, everyone loves you. You could pass this thing asleep. I, on the other hand, am going to go get some breakfast in the slave wing. You keeping Enrique entertained for awhile?” I nod. “Good. I'll take Debina with me. We can finish gossiping.” And with that, she starts to walk away. Typical.

Debina goes to follow her, and then stops. I see her visibly tense, and I catch a whiff of indecision, and fear. Then, with an effort, she turns around and faces me. She lifts Kike's bag off of her shoulders and hands it to me. “There's a bell for him in the front pocket, like the one you have. It's for the hatching.” As I take the bag, our hands brush, and I feel the usual sparkle of skin on skin. I must have projected it a bit too, because Debina breaks form and looks up, into my eyes, for just a moment.

Never one to miss an opportunity, I flash her the brightest, most assuring smile I can, and ask, “What are you two gossiping about anyhow?” She ducks her head and turns away, obviously ignoring my question. I know other people might have her punished for such insolence, but I love it. Seeing a slave break the stupid rules that govern their lives is one of my favorite things here.

As I walk toward the nearest room with chairs, an auditorium, I loop the bag over my shoulder and pocket the bell. I really am curious about what Sarin and Debina could be gossiping over. I mean, I didn't think that slaves did anything without their master's. When do they see other slaves? And then, what could they possibly have heard/seen? Maybe they gossip about their masters? No, that would be too risky, wouldn't it? I table the question for later as I reach the auditorium. Some class is in session, so I snag a chair quietly and turn around.

I retrace my way back to the Armory, trusting instinct and repetition to get me there safely. There's a small knot at the bottom of my stomach, it's cause unknown. I think, trying to figure out what's wrong, and come up with nothing. That's another problem with this “grayness” inside my head. It tends to interfere with introspection, as well as muting emotion. Sarin says it'll go away eventually.

That's it. Sarin. Sarin won't be with me in the Council chamber. That scares the hell out of me. There is so much weird ettiquet here, I rely on her so much to make sure I follow the rules. I don't know if I can do this without her. As soon as I really start to stress, though, the grayness comes in and steals my thunder. Oh well. I'll deal.

I find my way back to my Armory, and walk back inside. Kike is sitting in the same place, sitting the same way, except for now he's playing with a top that whistles as you spin it.

“That one's not magicked at all, you know? It's just how you whittle the wood.” I explain. Kike jumps, bumping the table and knocking the top over. I laugh and set up the chair across from him. Kike says nothing, simply spinning the top again.

Since he's saying nothing, I stay quiet. I cross to a cubicle that sits behind Kike and pull out a sheaf of papers. All of the spells for my most recent projects. I flip through them idly, savoring their smell. I pull a chair up to the table and sit down. Now, I can get down to work.


	2. Last Minute Mods

Chapter 2

 

 

As I work, my mind drifts. This stuff, spelling and enchanting, has always come naturally. When Sarin gave me my first lesson on reaching for your magic inside of yourself, she said she couldn't believe how brightly my fire burned, or how deep the color was. Both are good signs, she had said. She was on to something, because a month later, when I start formal classes with each of my instructors, time and time again I surprised them, and continued to surprise them until they had ratcheted up the curriculum enough to halt my furious progress. Even now, only a year later, I'm operating at a level that would leave most Indigenous quite annoyed.

See, I'm what they call an “Import”. It means I was brought to this world from another, and typically they only do this when they want to add an exotic edge to the slave trade. For whatever reason, I flagged their radar. They tell me my heart had cried out for them, but I highly doubt that. Was I a fantasy geek? Yes. Was I contemplating what life would have been like if I could leave my old one behind? Maybe. Did I want to be whisked away to a whole other universe and taught to make deadly weapons for a war crazy nation? Hell to the no. The thing is, when they ask whether or not you want to come with them, there's really no choice involved. You're going with them no matter what. I'm lucky, because I said yes. Something told me it would be far, far worse for me if I said no. Those who refuse what Mitites call “The Highest Honor” tend to end up locked in a back room somewhere, being tested for defects and used to fuel propaganda campaigns.

Imports are kind of a gamble , also. First off, only certain people can traverse the corridors between worlds, and even they do it at their own risk. If they make a blunder, even once, they could be sucked away to who knows where. Those who are overeager or under prepared are never heard of again.

Second, when they bring in new people, slave or mage, they run the risk of us not acclimating correctly. Be it disease, social customs or, in the case of slaves, fragility, some of us don't make it, and the Walker, as those special Mages are called, has used up an enormous amount of energy for nothing.

Finally, in the case of a Mage like me, I may have no talent what so ever. More often than not, those brought in from other worlds are mediocre Mages at best, with no idea how to master the primal forces. I guess I should be glad that I've always been more of an exception, rather than a rule, because I really do have a knack for this stuff.

After some cursory tests, the High Guild, made up of all the Guildheads, decided that I was to be put in the Armory program. Armorers are the branch of the Magekin that put spells, or bewitchments, on objects. We aren't limited to making weapons, really. It's just that, at least within the military, that is our primary function. I love it. There are many ways to master magic, but the method that the Armorers employ is runemarks. These are a series of marks that, when used correctly, spell out a spell or magical process, from making someone invisible to keeping them warm. The skills of a an Armorer are highly prized, because we are the rarest form of Mage, and our magic is forever. Once spelled, an object could very well hold that spell until it has been completely dissembled. Other Guilds try, but have never gotten their magic to stay in one place for more than an instance. Even Babblers, who are seen as the most power type of Mage, can only weave semi-permanant spells, which are exhausting and tend to kill the caster. No, we are set apart, and this can make us outcasts at times, but I have yet to see why being set apart from this society is bad.

 

 

By the time the bells rings for me to leave, my eyes are closed. My body is relaxed, and my hands are turning the gun over and over in my hands. I have written the addition to the spell in a thin gray paint and spoken the activating words. I have said the prayer I always say, and now I am bringing life to the runes. I mutter to myself as I call on the fire inside of me. It starts in my stomach and travels up, up to my shoulder and then down, down my arms. It pools in my hands, allowing me to squeeze it out little by little, like toothpaste. It races along the lines I have drawn, causing the paint to evaporate and the spell to come alive. As I finish my incantation, I sit for a moment to admire my handy work. The gun hums in my hands, causing them to tingle. I tap it, and it sings a note, pure and clear, only for me. I laugh at it's enthusiasm, waking up Kike in the process. He had fallen asleep a bit ago, all the toys I had let him play with spread out around his head. When I had gone trance he had fallen asleep. He brought his head up now, though. He has the hover coin stuck to his right cheek, and his eye lid is trying to stay shut.

“Dork.” I say to him, shaking my head. I turn the gun over in my hands, looking for any signs of weakness or stress. Nothing so far, so that's good. Sometimes when you add parts to existing spells, the vessel gets a little fragile. The gumgun seems fine though, so I stand to stretch. Spelling always takes a lot out of you, between the intense concentration required to control the magic and the way it weakens the muscles it travels through them. My knees feel pleasantly wobbly, and my arms shake a bit. I smile, loving the way it makes me feel, light and disconnected. I'm basking in the feeling as I hear it. A small tinkling, like a copper cog coughing. I listen, and memory hits me. The Council. The glow fades instantly as I scram ble to grab a hold on the small bell. As I pick it up, the imaginary “mute” button clicks off. A raucous pealing fills the room, echoing again and again, resonating in my head, making my nose buzz and my arm shake. I drop the bell, and the noise goes back to a soft tinkle. Kike gives me a smirk.

“First time with a summon-bell?” He says, all innocence, and his smirk grows.

“Shut up.” Is all I say. I start to pack up, hoping my hair isn't too frazzled, and that I haven't started sweating too much, or my eyes are bloodshot. These things tend to happen right after a working. I wish I had time to test the modifications I've made to the spell, but I don't. I'm just gonna have to hope that I'm as good as Sarin says I am.

When I'm set to go, I gingerly reach for the bell once again, expecting the same bone shattering percussion as before. Instead, what traveled up my arms was a soft chime, like a comb being drug over a metal pole. Much easier to bear.

Kike leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. “It levels out after awhile. That way, it can get louder as you get to wherever you're going.” He smiles at me in a cocky matter.

I just roll my eyes at his condescension. Stopping for a moment to think about what I need to bring with me and, finding nothing, I start to head out the door.

“Let yourself out. Debina and Sarin are in the slave wing, eating. Or they were earlier. Either way, I gotta go.” I say, half over my shoulder. I take three steps out of the door the remember his bell. I stick my head in the door. “Almost forgot. The summon-bell for the Hatching is in your bag. See you later.” And I left.

 

 

I kneel in the middle of the the Council chamber with my head bowed and my eyes closed, about thirty feet from the High Table, where the three of the most important Guildsfolk sit. Today, they will decide my fate. Will I be inducted into the Guild as an Intern, on my way to becoming an adult member of the Armory? Or will I be Rejected, cast out into an Alien society with no one and no place to go to? I'll know soon. I take a deep breath, centering my _suba,_ the magical fire that sits in my stomach, waiting for me to call on it. I grip the gumgun through where it sits, thrust into the left side of my belt, the ammunition hangin just outside it's hiding place. I look up, and up, to the table in front of me. It is lifted about ten feet off the ground, sitting on a platform, a plain wooden table with very little adorning it. I can see that it is intensely magical though. Marks wiggle underneath the surface, like fish in the shallows, shimmering and disappearing. I felt it's aura as soon as I stepped into the room.

Behind the table sit the three Guildheads. On the left, my Rune's teacher, Senora Balquet. She adores me, which is proven by the way she winks at me as I meet her eyes. A plump woman in her late 50's, she is profoundly brown. I mean it. Eye's, hair, clothing, skin, even her teeth. She spelled them a dark tshade when she was a teen, which was the fad at that time, and took to it so much that she never reversed the spell. It was shocking at first, but I got over it pretty quick.

On the far end from her sits the one roadblock in the way of my otherwise inevitable admittance to the Guild, Senor Breakitse. He is a rather cantankerous old man, tall and thin like a scarecrow, who I've only met once or twice, at social events and group projects, and yet he has developed a rather intense hatred of me. See, despite the fact that I excel where most fail and have been nothing but cooperative with my acclimation to this somewhat insane culture, he only see's me as one thing. An Import. Dirty, rotten, disgusting. I am an infection that needs to be snuffed out. He is under the impression that me and my “ilk” do nothing but rot the morality and integrity of this fine, slave holding, war-mongering nation. Talk about delusional. I try not to worry about him.

Between these two people sits one of the most powerful men in the King's Army, a man who has single-handedly won Mitaen a small Empire on his own, albeit from safe at home here in Military Academy. His weapons were the deciding factors in three or four skirmishes over the past decade or so, and as such he hold the highest position one can hold in the Guild. He is Alfonso Bina, High Guildsmaster. He presides over all of the War Guilds here at the Academy, and all military operations thereout. The fact that he is here shows how much they are willing to devote to my education and career here. I should be flattered, honored, and about a hundred different synonyms. It's still scary as hell.

I lift my gaze fully, meeting first Sra. Balquet's eyes, then Sr. Breakitse's, and finally Sr. Bina. I hold his eyes the longest, and then say in a loud voice, “Thank you for having me today. I, Paul Marseito, present myself for your scrutiny and evaluation. I ask to be admitted into the Guild proper, so that I may advance my career, _mi_ _chiva_ and, most importantly, the Nation of Mitaen.” I keep my voice loud and cleat, enunciating each of my words carefully, and await their judgement. All three are still, with Sra. Balquet's face a soft smile, Sr. Breakitse's face a hard frown, and Sr. Bina's face unreadable. I wait, breathless. Did I remember the words wrong, or forget something crucial in the middle? Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Sr. Bina speaks.

“Welcome, my son. Enter this hall with gladness, and I pray you leave it with a light heart. Let us judge you and test you, knowing it is only for the good of the State, and let us leave here knowing that all things are for a reason. Stand and step forward, my son. We shall begin.” His voice is deep, and strong. It flows clear, and cold, like a mountain stream. I stand, and finally get a good look at the man I've heard so much about.

He is dark. Most people around here have a light olive tone to their skin, but he is far past that. He is brown as a walnut, leathery and wrinkled. His eyes are so dark they are almost black. His hair _is_ black, the deepest shade I have ever seen. He wears a gotee, and the hair on his head is cut short, right against his skull. I can't tell much about his body type from where I am standing, but I get the sense that he is large, tall and broad. Power flows out of him and floats in the air. I can practically see it. It terrifies me.

He speaks again. “So, you are the young man I have heard so much about. How are you today?”

I go to speak, but my breath catches in my throat. I am paralysed, totally afraid of this whole ordeal. It's silly, I shouldn't be. I can't change the outcome now, can I? And, just like that, they greyness sweeps in, stilling my fear and prompting action. “I am quite good. Looking forward to the future.” I smile slightly, trying not to push too hard.

He smiles back, as does Sra. Balquet. Sr. Breakitse just frowns deeper. Sr. Bina lifts a clipboard closer to his face, and I see a brief flare of magic around his eyes. Is he using a runespell to correct his eyesight? Wow, that kind of control and confidence is amazing.

“You have quite an impressive resume, my boy. Fluent in our language after only one year, surpassing expectation in every aspect of your studies, even managing to teach your instructors a thing or two. And as an Import no less.” Sra. Balquet laughs a little at this, even while Sr. Breakitse scoffs. Sr. Bina silences both of them with a look. “You can drive a car as well. Hmm...” He fall silent for a moment, then his eyes widen a bit. “It says here that you are empathic? In what way?”

I take a deep breath, instantly trying to think of a way to deflect, and then I remember what Sarin had told me. Never lie. They have spells that tell them, and that looks horrible. Don't even bend the truth. Just be honest.

“I can sense the emotions of those around me, using any one of my senses. Usually I feel it, on my skin. A little stronger than that, I smell it. Then, as it gets stronger, I taste, hear and see the emotion. I really don't have much control over it, and it usually only happens when I'm with people I know fairly well. All in all, not very useful.” It's a little more vague than that, but I smile a little, trying to act apologetic about how passive it is. Here, everything that might be a weapon, no matter how insignificant, should be honed into a salad fork at least. Like, a really pointy one.

Anyhow, Sr. Bina gives no indication on what his thoughts on the matter are. He simply continues on. “You're also marked down as a 'Possible Precog”. I haven't heard of that before. Care to explain what that is?” His face is kind, but I'm always looking for the trap. I don't find one, so I answer.

“I've been having dreams lately, Sir. Sometimes they relate to what I do that day. What food is served in the Mess Hall, what the subject in class might be. One time I predicted my pants ripping during drill, and brought an extra pair. Turned out to be a good thing I had.” Once again, I smile. This time, I am encouraging, showing it to each of the three Council Members in turn. Sr. Breakitse gives me the stank eye.

Sra. Balquet speaks for the first time. “Really? Have you been tested officially?”

“No. They haven't progressed beyond hazy idea yet, and I have no control.” I start to go into a detailed explanation of what my projected progress might be when it hits me. I see something shiny spinning in Sra. Bina's hands, and I'm not there anymore. I'm somewhere else.

 

 

_A taught young body is before me. It is pail, very thin, and somehow familiar. Not in it's entirety though, because I don't remember the spiderweb of whipmarks that cover it. The body moves, making a pained sound. He is male, and tied to a post, arms above his head. Rain is beating down on us, and I am holding the whip. I reach out to touch one of the lashes, and his body jerks under my hands. Did I do this?_

 

Suddenly I am back in my own body, feeling woozy and nauseous. The room spins a bit, and I am on my knees. My head has sunk down between my knee's, and the room is silent. Then I remember where I am.

I jerk my head up, horrified at what just happened. I blanked out in front of the Council. I was dead for sure, or might as well have been. I try to blink away the blurryness in my eyes, to see the Council members once again. When the world is clear again, I am surprised by what I see. Sra. Balquet and Sr. Breakitse have somewhat shocked looks on their faces, and Sr. Bina looks... Impressed.

He picks up the clipboard and writes something down. “I'll put you down for 'needs further study'. The fact that you can be induced is a good sign, as it means that your abilities might grow in the future.” I feel a look of surprise cross my face, before I school my features back to a calm(ish) mask, to better represent myself. Sr. Bina catches the look though. “Yes, I did that. It's a trick I learned in the service. My friend was a precog, and that was the only way it would work for him. I figured it was worth a shot, and I was not disappointed.” I attempt to get to my feet, and he holds up a hand. “Stay down until you feel well enough to stand. It may take a few minutes. Besides, we still have some questions to ask you.” He lifts the top paper of the clip board and looks over the one underneath.

“So, what are your plans if you enter the Guild. Stay here in the Armory, or will you go out and find work elsewhere?” He asks. I can't tell him the truth, that I someday I want to get the hell out of here, back to whatever family I have left. No, that would not go over well. So, I break Sarin's rules and bend the truth, just a bit.

“Someday, I hope to be on one of the Venturing groups, scouting new territory. It includes all of my interests, with the Keeping and the possible combat. I also like the idea of doing something tangible, where I can see my work doing something, and reap the rewards personally” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Mitaen values the good of the State over personal conflicts, and I should've answered as such. Dang it. My head was still swimming from my vision. A part of me was surprised that I wasn't surprised, but the greyness told it to shut up, and it did.

Sr. Bina ignored my small slip up. “You know, it is very rare to put an Armorer in a Venturing group. It's a much more fast paced lifestyle than our magic is suited for.” He looks down at the papers again. “But, it does seem that you show some rather... Nontraditional talents in magic. Am I wrong?”

I shake my head. “I can give some runes special characteristics, and use them in somewhat new ways.” I bounce on my knees a bit, gauging how steady they are. My head is almost clear, and I'm feeling almost good enough to stand. A minute or two more.

“New ways? Will you explain these to me?” Sr. Bina is quite excited. I can taste it from my spot ten feet away. Sra. Balquet is smug, since she's been there since I first started using runes. Sr. Breakitse's face has almost folded in on itself he's frowning so hard. It's like someone popped the baloon inside of a paper mache head before the paper dried. I fight to keep from laughing. To cover my snickers, I stand up, a bit shakily.

“It might be better if I show you. Could you bring out a target, _por favor?_ ” I ask. As they say, a picture says a thousand words.

Sr. Bina nods and snaps his fingers. Out of the corner of the room, three slaves appear. Literaly, appear. To me, it looked like they had walked through the wall. Either they did that, or their's an invisibility spell on the walls. In any case, they are all male, very good looking, dressed in the short blue cotton shorts that all male slaves wear. It shows off their strong bodies well. They carry between them a large round target, like you might use for archery. They set it down on the floor about fifteen feet away from me and kneel. They wait there until Sr. Bina snaps his fingers, and they exit.

I don't dwell on the slaves very long. “I figured out awhile ago that if you draw runes in the air, sometimes you can use them like you would any other object. I can only do this with marks I've used a lot, or marks that mean something to me. I'll demonstrate.”

I turn to face the target, centering myself. My _suba_ is all over the place after my recent episode, but I manage to draw one tendril up my arm and into my hand. I make a claw out of my first two fingers and my thumb, and twist my wrist. If I had been looking, I would have seen a golden circle appear in the air. I wasn't though. I was focusing on the mark in my mind. My fingers twitch, seemingly randomly, drawing crooked lines in towards the center. When the three lines meet in the middle, I bring up my hand, palm up, and bend my arm towards my body. Then, I snap my rm out straight and fling the mark towards the target. When it hits, a shock goes through the floor. The fabric that covers the front of the target bursts, spewing straw and dust everywhere. I'm a little shocked that I caused such a violent reaction with one of my lower level marks. I guess I'm more shaken up than I had realized.

I turn to the Council, feeling pretty proud of myself. All three of the Council members are looking at me with shock. Sra. Balquet is the first to recover.

“What mark was that?” Her voice betrays how much I shocked her. She's seen me work like this before, albeit on a smaller scale. In her class I mostly just set lit candles, or moved things across the room. I had never been destructive.

I smile confidently, knowing that looking like I was in charge was the best thing at the moment. “A level 1 quake mark.”

Sr. Bina whistles, low. “You can work with elemental marks already?” I nod. “Why didn't they bring you to me before this? My my...” He looks down as the clip board and makes some marks. I see him make check after check after check I hope he's approving me. He flips the page again. “All that's left is your Tribute. Do you have it with you?”

I nod, pulling it from my belt. I hold the gun up to the light, turning it slowly. Three sets of eyes watch it closely. “This is what I like to call a 'gumgun'. It shoots a form of gumball that swells up to monumental size, gumming up everything it touches. This is just a prototype, so it needs work. But I felt I had to show it to you, rough as it may be.” Sr. Breakitse had been silent this whole time, content to glare and scoff. Now, he breaks his peace.

“A _goon?_ A _goon?!?_ What is a _goon?!?_ What are you trying to give us, some silly, idiotic toy brought from whatever pond they scraped you from the bottom of? I refuse to be insulted like this!” His voice, scratchy and old, filled the chamber like a thousand snakes hissing. It gave me the chills. I instinctivly wanted to cringe away from it, but forced myself to stand still. I would not show fear to this old man.

Sr. Bina came to my defense. “You haven't even seen what this _goon_ is able to do, Almuerto. Give hi...”  
“But I have seen him and that Fabricator girl playing with those around the Academy, shooting those infernal wads of gum at each other and whatever strokes their fancy at the moment. I mean, I s...”

“Almuerto, be quiet.” Sr. Bina says. Instantly, Sr. Breakitse falls silent. I feel a cool wind blow across my skin as I taste mint on my tongue. Sr. Bina is not pleased.

“While I both value your opinion and respect your position, I do not like being interrupted, especially during a conversation between myself and an esteemed coleeg. Do you understand?” Sr. Bina's voice is like a cloud of ice, making me feel cold, inside and out. I know this anger isn't directed at me, but I feel it just as keenly as if it had been. I'm thawed out a bit when I realise that Sr. Bina has just referred to me as his “esteemed coleeg”. Does that mean what I think it does.

Sr. Bina cuts off my happy dance, though. “If you might demonstrate, _Joven_ Marseito, how your tribute works.”

I nod my head and turn to the target once more. I pop the clip out and dig in the bag at my waist for a moment, pulling out a hand full of bullets. I fit them into the slots on the clip and replace it into the gun. Then, take my stance.

This time, as I pull the trigger, instead of a soft hiss, the sharp sound of air escaping extreme pressure fills the chamber. No light flares, and all is silent but for the “whumph” of the bullet as it slams into the hay of the ruined target. As it makes contact, just like before, it becomes sticky and messy. Unlike before, it starts to grow. It grow larger and larger, a huge blob of chewing gum, gray and shiny in the light. As it reaches a size that doesn't seem possible for the size of the bullet, the bubble pops, leaving string of ooey, gooey mess dripping down and down and down.

I turn back to the table, meeting confusion this time, instead of the approval I was hoping for. I wait a moment, hoping for one of them to say something. When the room remains quiet, I say, “And so, that's how that works.” And wait.

After a moment, Sra. Balquet asks, “How does that help us, here, in the Armory?”

I think about that a moment. “I guess it doesn't, not really. But think about using it in battle. You're enemy is coming at you, full speed, flaying towards you on horse back, or one of those horseless jobs that the Sibaru's are using now a days. Fire one of these babies into their wheels, or legs, and their toast.” I smile and unhook the bag from my hip, hoisting it in the air. Then, I drop my arm and bow my head, waiting.

“Well, I guess all that's left is a vote.” Sr. Bina says, setting my heart on a racetrack to cardiac arrest. This is it. The moment of truth. Suddenly, I begin to run through everything I had done so far, highlighting a thousand errors and kicking myself for everyone. I clench my teeth and force my expression back to 'sane' and await the verdict.

Sr. Bina leans into Sra. Balquet, whispering to her. They completely ignore Sr. Breakitse. He just sits and glares at me, and I meet his eyes and stare back. The way I figure it, I have nothing to lose. He hates me, so I might as well stare back. Won't change his vote none.

Finally, Sr. Bina and Sra. Balquet stop their whispering, and Sr. Breakitse and I stop our staring. It is time.

Sr. Bina inclines his head to Sra. Balquet, and she says her piece first. “Paul, you are an excellent student, a committed Mage and you will make a very good citizen someday. You've had my vote all along.” She smiles at me, chocolate teeth making my heart explode. I beam at her, then turn to look at Sr. Breakitse.

He takes a deep breath and says, simply, “You are not of this world, and thus cannot possibly know what is best for it. You are trash, and will never be anything more. I vote no.” Wow. Big shocker there. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Finally, it's Sr. Bina's turn. Once again, the montage of all my slip-ups and failures plays through my head. Did I stumble on my way in here? I coughed during my initial speech, didn't I? Then, I remember my speech about wanting to be in the Venturing groups. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I cringe a bit as he takes a breath to speak.

“Paul, in just this short time, you have managed to impress me more than any of the other hundreds of young men and woman I have seen enter this room over the past three decades. I look forward to seeing what you have in store for us. There is much you have to learn, such as this control, or lack of it, and that will need to be dealt with. But, you have my vote.” He smiles at me, and stands.

My heart soars. I feel like dancing right there, like singing and screaming and clapping. Strangely enough, the only thought in my mind is “Where's the confetti? I need some confetti!”

I don't have much time to spin, though. Sr. Bina comes down from behind the table, walking up to me. I was half right about his being tall and broad. Broad, yes. His shoulders are wide, and his body is strong. Tall, not so much. His head barely comes to the top button of my shirt. That doesn't stop him from gripping my shoulders with both hands and saying, “We are proud to have you in our ranks, son. Welcome aboard.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon induction to the Armory Guild, Paul must buy and keep a personal-slave. The morals from his past life fight for presidence over local custom. What's going to win? And will he be able to live with himself?

Chapter 3

 

It took me a bit to find my new apartment. Sra. Balquet had tweaked the summon-bell a bit so it would send me here now, instead of there. Also, she made it permanent, so I can use it until I learn how to get here. I live in an entirely different wing of the castle now, on the northwest side instead of the south. The stone is darker, older. Also, there are far less people living here. Before, I was with students from every program, even the Guildless who are here to learn some other, nonmilitant, trade. Now, I'm one step away from having a Guild Suite, and one step away from getting out of here.

When I finally navigate the halls to my new residence, I see Sarin leaning against the door already, a smile on her face. The halls are clear, so as soon as she hears me coming, she starts running, tackling me in a big hug. I can taste her excitement, the electric taste of wasabi. She plants a kiss on my cheek and squeezes as hard as she can. “Oooh!! I'm so proud of you. I knew you could do it. Yaay!!”

I hug her awkwardly at first, and then start batting at her, trying to get up from the floor. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I say, “Now, could I please get up? I wanna check out my new digs.” Finally, she lets me up, but refuses to relinquish her hold on my hand.

“You are gonna love it so much. There's so much more than where we lived before. I mean, you won't believe the stuff they have in here, totally cutting edge. Open the door, open the door, openthedooropenitopenopenopen”

I roll my eyes at her and press my free hand to the panel on the left side. It glows a cool blue for a moment, then the catch clicks and the door pops open. I push my way in, noticing how Sarin has gone quiet behind me. I'm not quite prepared for what's inside.

As I walk in and pass through a small hallway, I instantly run into what I assume to be the living room. It spreads out to the left and right, easily as big as the rooms me and Sarin were living in before put together. I can see three doors, two on the right, one on the left. Off to the left side is a small kitchen separated by a half wall/counter. It has a stove, a refrigerator, and small black box that I don't recognize.

There is a couch with three seats, three chairs and a coffee table. Everything is carpeted in gray, and the furniture is wood with gray cloth. It is beautiful and simple and, after living like a monk, so much more than I've had over the last year. I feel like crying, or laughing, or both. I smile, and Sarin pulls me to one of the doors on the right wall.

She bounces over to the one that's farthest from us and opens it. “Here is your bedroom!” She says, waving her hand with a flourish. It is easily twice as big as my old room, with two windows along the back wall. This, my, room is carpeted in blue, with off white walls and gray furniture. There are two dressers on the right hand wall, next to another door, and past that is a wardrobe that stands about eight feet tall. The best part, though, is the bed. Before, I had slept on a bed that was about twin sized, probably smaller. My feet stuck off the end, and I had to sleep curled on my side. It had been filled with corn husks or something along those lines and had sunken in in the middle, leaving me with a perpetual back ache in the morning. This one, though, was beautiful.

It was huge, queen sized at least, made up with a cream and royal blue comforter. It was huge, perfect, and from the look of it, fluffy as hell. “I bet this one isn't full of corn husks.” I mutter to myself. Sarin, with her super hearing, nods and whispers, “Wanna find out?”

I look at her, she looks at me, and we're off like a rocket. She gets there first, flinging herself onto the bed like a squirrel, and I follow, hitting like a cannonball. Whatever they fill the mattresses with here isn't as springy as home, but it's still fun to be a dork in. We screwed around for awhile, rolling on the bed and, when that got old, rolling on the floor, admiring how soft and cushy the pale carpet is.

After awhile, though, we finally calm down. We're sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, out of breath and still giggling a little. I spot a door on each side of the room, identical and sitting across from one another. “What'r those?” I ask Sarin.

She looks over at the doors in question. “Oh. Those. Well,” she says, standing up, “This one is a closet.” She opens the door and walks inside. She comes back a moment later, apparently having walked around inside of it. I make a mental note that the closet is big. She crosses to the other side of the room.

“This,” she says, opening the door, “Is where your slave will sleep.”

I walk over to her and peer in the door. Inside is a smallish room, maybe a third the size of my room, that has one small dresser and a small bed. The bed has one dull blue blanket on it and one thin pillow.

“That's it? How'r you gonna be comfortable sleeping on that bed?” I ask her. She has this weird back trick, so a hard, thin mattress like that won't do.

She looks at me funny and says, “I won't be, because I won't be sleeping there.”  
I am confused, and say as much. “Where _will_ you be sleeping then?”

She gives me that same look. It's sad, and hurt a little too. I can taste regret.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

She sighs, and takes a deep breath. I sense hesitance, and the acceptance. “Paul, I won't be living with you anymore. My time is done.”

Just like that, the happy and bubbly feelings I had accumulated popped. Sarin wouldn't be with me. She was my Guide, my teacher, my protector. She had helped me adjust to this new world, and the thought of a world without her... Shouldn't be possible. I was scared.

She came forward, wrapping her arms around me, sending assurance and comfort forward. I barely felt them. My mind was reeling, flipping through all the possibilities and possible outcomes of her not being there. Depression, insanity and, worst of all, social embarrassment. I couldn't do this. I can't do this. I won't do this.

Sarin sighs into my chest. For the first time, I really look at her. She is blonde, with a light tan that stays year round. She is short, her head not even coming to my chin. But she is strong. More often than not, she has shown a strength that I do not understand, pulling me from dark places and steering me from problem spaces. She has a killer body, if I do say so myself, and a more mature being might use the word “buxom”, but I just say “Holy Shit”. She can fill out the slave garb like none other. Her eyes are the brightest blue, albeit dead and reflective, and her teeth are a little too big. She is, by definition, adorable. All at once, my stomach bottoms out, my knees grow weak, and I sink to the floor. Sarin sinks with me.

“What the hell...” I keep repeating. Sarin just holds me, sending warm feelings and trying to calm me. Finally, my brain starts working again. I hate how my emotions will explode randomly like this, and how little control I have over them. I mutter an “I'm sorry,” into her hair, and she shrugs.

“It's alright. Emotions are nutso while you're stuck going through _bidanu_. It'll level out eventually. Are you alright now?” She's always so patient with me, and never seems angry. I'm going to miss her so much.

The grayness sweeps in, and I am fine. I stand. “Yeah, I'm good now. I'll deal. Why didn't you tell me?” It's a reasonable question. It would have given me time to acclimate. I might not have busted like that.

She shrugs again, walking to sit on the bed. “I know you. You probably would've done something stupid, like brought it up during your admissions. That would have sunk you for sure. The Council is looking to induct people who are ready to become adult members of the Guilds, and someone who still wants to rely on their Guide is anything but. Besides, you'll be fine. You've got a knack for the people stuff. I hear you worked the Council, all smiley and whatnot. That is crucial for an adult Guildsman. You have to be able to work your _chiva_ in every way possible, for you're betterment and the downfall of your enemies. You have that gift.”

I grunt. “Seems to me I've been given all these gifts, and everything has fallen into place so perfectly. I mean, things should _not_ be this easy. Life should be a little hard, or a lot. It's not worth it otherwise.” I've always been wary of a happy ending, since I know how little that actually happens.

Sarin rolls her eyes at me. “You expected things from here on out to be easy? You'll get your wish.” Her eyes widen. “Which reminds me.” She crosses over to the wardrobe on the far wall. “I need to go over you're duties and privileges as a new intern.” She opens the wardrobe and pulls out a black binder, leather bound, with a sheaf of papers in it. She hands it to me. “This will go over the finer points, but basically it boils down to 4 things.” She holds up her pointer finger. “One: You have a duty to promote your Guild. This takes precedence above all else.” She pops up her middle finger, next to her pointer, waggling them slightly. “Two: You have a duty to your Lord or Lady, your mentor throughout the next two years. “ Another finger, “Three: You are to work your _chiva_ to the benefit of yourself and your friends, while using it against those who stand in your way. Finally,” The last finger goes up, “You are to pick out, buy and own a personal slave. You must teach them the humbleness and grace that their station commands them, and to give them a permanent place at your side. If you do these four things, as well as continue to be a functional and gracious member of the Armory, you will survive. It may seem like a lot right now, but you _will_ be fine.” She assures me.

She's right. I do feel overwhelmed. Already, I'm worried about this _chiva_ business, since I still can't get a straight answer on what the hell it is. As far as I've been able to figure out, it's a mixture of how you look, who you know, your fashion sense, how many friends you have, how many people hate you, and how exclusive you keep yourself. It's a cornucopia of confusingconcepts that I have barely wrapped my head around in the year I've been here. Most of the people I'll be competing against have had their entire lives to learn the in's and out's of this annoying and convoluted system. It's a daunting task, to say the least. Oh, and did I mention that your _chiva_ has a direct and profound effect on your _suba_. If your _chiva_ is weak, your _suba_ gets harder to deal with, eventually fleeing your grasp entirely. I don't understand it at all, but it's the rules I need to live by if I am to survive long enough to see Earth again.

Apparently I have been quiet for awhile, thinking of all these things, because Sarin asks, “Are you alright?”

I nod and say, “I will be. I guess I should've know this would happen. After all, as soon as Kili passed her anniversary, her Guide left and she bought Fraskan. She's been on her own ever since.” Kili is another friend of mine, probably my only other friend besides Kike. She's also the only other Import I know, pulled in from a world that, although they don't know the specifics of Mitaen, know about it's existence and agree with the Mitites about Importing being a huge honor. She is a fabricator, a Mage that can shape the very nature of things, creating products that wouldn't be possible though normal means. They can't spell magical properties into the product, so they work hand in hand with the Armory. They make it, we shake it up.

Sarin nods. “Exactly. That's why I thought it was so odd that this came as a shock. I mean, you knew I'd leave eventually, and you knew you were going to have to get a personal slave too. It wouldn't be proper otherwise.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes. We've talked about this, many times, how I am not comfortable with owning another human being. She insists that that will change once my _chiva_ kicks in, and that I'll grow used to it, even need it. She says that a personal slave is different from a work slave. They are closer to advisers, confidants. Since it is dangerous to tell any secret in this world, the personal slave is the secret keeper, as well as the one who helps you muddle through these first few months as an Intern. Most of the Guildsman are advised by at least one of these slaves at all times. They are bred for this, made beautiful and smart, and totally loyal. They will do anything for their Master, and work for his or her best interest at all times. The whole thing sickens me. I've seen them, interacted with them. Smart, yes. Conscious, no. They cannot function without someone ordering their every move, telling them what to do and working their life for them. It sickens me. Right then I decide that if I am forced to buy a slave, I will buy someone who has a little fire left in their soul.

That's when the vision hits me.

 

_I twist the whip in my hands, feeling the damp leather on my palm. Rain pelts me, pelts the boy. It dilutes the blood running down his back, washing it away. He is shaking, from pain or from cold. I do not know. His shorts are soaked, clinging to him like a second skin. I walk around the pole to look at his face, and just as I'm about to get a glimpse, a flash of lighting obscures his face._

 

I'm back in my new room, sitting with my back against the bed. Sarin is kneeling in front of me, studying my face. Or, it looks like she is. I always wonder if she does those little mannerisms for us regular people's sake, or if she actually gets something out of them.

“What did you see?” She asks me, cutting straight to the point.

I shake my head. “I'm not sure. I think I saw the slave.” My slave, and echo in my mind says. I ignore it, and stand up. I'm not nearly as shaky as before. “It was raining, and I think I had just whipped him.” Odd, I think. I'm usually sickened by the disciplining practices used on slaves.

Sarin either doesn't hear my choice of pronoun, or thinks it a slip of the tongue. She stands and smiles at me. “Good. That means your mind is already questing for her. That'll make the selection much easier. What does she look like? Is she pretty?” Back to her usual pep, despite the fact that I had just brought up whipping the girl. Or...

“It wasn't a girl, actually. It was a boy, and a quite striking one if I'm remembering the vision correctly.” I'm not sure why I knew he was good looking, but something in my mind screamed it. He is the most beautiful boy in the world. Now, why would I think that?

Sarin bites her lip, smelling mildly of worry, like a peppery lemon. It stings my nose. “A boy, you say? Hmm... I wonder if that's bad for your _chiva_... No matter, it can't be helped. You'll work whatever angle you need to. What you need to do right now is get ready to leave.”

I gape at her. “Leave? Why am I leaving? I haven't even moved in yet. I mean, don't I get some time off before the next phase of my education?” I protest. I get that this is a Military institution, but it's not like Mitaen is fighting any major wars right now, and I seriously need a break. I've been dealing with this crap nonstop for a year.

Sarin rolls her eyes at me. “You really thought you'd have to move your own things? You're an intern now. By the time you get back, your room will be unpacked and ready for you.”  
“By the time I get back? Where am I going?”

“The the slave pens of course. Where else will you get your slave?” She asks the question like it should be obvious.

“I have to go get one today? It'll be sundown in two hours, and it'll take at least that long to drive to the nearest town. Then, I've got to pick one out, do all the work that goes into purchasing a slave, and drive all the way back. It'll be ten o-clock before I even get home, and then I've got to move the slave in and prepare for class tomorrow and...”

“You don't have class tomorrow.” Sarin states, derailing my panic train before it can go very far.

I am surprised. “I don't?”

“No, you get six weeks off for your leisure, as well as time to train your slave in such a way as to fit your needs. Don't worry, I took three months off so I could be here to help. I know it's not perfect, but I won't be abandoning you to this new life, at least not at first. Promise.” She smiles and walks over to give me one last hug. “Now, lets order dinner, and then we'll send you on your way. Sound good?”

“I get to order food into my room here?” I ask, surprised again.

“What do you think that funny black box in the kitchen is for?” She asks me.

“I could seriously go for some Chinese right now...” I mutter to myself.

Sarin is confused, muddling the tastes on my tongue. “ _Chinis?_ What is that?”

I sigh to myself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul must buy his slave, but what happens when some of his past comes back to haunt him?

Chapter 4

I drive a little too fast all the way to the slave pens. The part of me that strives to maintain a rational explanation for everything says it's because I'm trying to beat the impending rainstorm, but I know there's more to it than that. Really, I'm scared shitless about the upcoming ordeal and I'm eager to get it over with. I've seen slavery all around me for years, watched horrible things happen to seemingly good people. I've witnessed good men do terrible things, all because society supports that action. I guess that's not all that different from what I grew up to, in the end. No different from a culture hating fat people, or the idea that burping is rude at the dinner table.  
I've never been able to decide if I agree with it or not. Slavery. The word leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I mean, as an American, I've had the idea that “slavery is BAD” drilled into my head from day one, with more speeches; videos; lectures and pamphlets than I could count handed to me and crammed into my head. I know it's wrong, treating another man as property, but at the same time...  
At the same time I see the appeal. I understand how the idea of being in total control over another person would make you feel good, make you feel invincible. Knowing someone will do anything or everything for you at the drop of the hat can be an addictive thing. I also understand that not all people take it to a place of pain. I mean, from what I understand it, some work-slaves have a better life than most civilians. They have reasonable accommodations, living in solid, watertight houses on the work site. They get three square meals a day, since a worker needs his energy, and always have clothes to wear. Even the personal-slaves at the Academy are treated more as companions and assistants than slaves.  
There's always the antithesis, though. Plenty of personal-slaves live in hell. Used as exotic dancers, entertainment, amusement of the sickest kind, they live in constant fear and terror, knowing only that tomorrow will bring more punishment. Some are paraded around arena's like dogs, other used as test subjects for projects both chemical and physical. At the best, most slaves can look forward to life as an exotic pet. At the worst, they can look forward to a long life of pain and segregation, hoping for the day they can finally be set free. Any other reality besides this one, this society would be mandating war crimes. Here, it's par for the course.  
As my stomach churns, and thunder mixes with the sound of the engine, I see the city of Ravin come into view. Now, on Earth cities shine. Spotlights, office buildings, advertisements, you name it. They light up the sky for miles around, coloring the horizon a miasma of different colors. Here, the cities glow. Since there's virtually no electricity in Mitaen, houses and streets are lit with gas lamps or glass bulbs. Not like ours, mind you. These are solid glass bulbs that are magicked to create light. Effective, since once they're spelled they work until they break, but it just doesn't create the same dazzling effect from far away.  
As I ponder these thoughts, I look around at the car the academy issued to me. I guess it's, in pretty much every way, mine. I'm the only intern to be added to the ranks of the Armory this year, since they apparently haven't found any new Armorers in this part of the country. Usually one car is shared between those of the same year, so I have no competition for it's use.  
I am always shocked by the odd blending of old and new here, or I guess the terms might be high and low tech. See, they use magic for pretty much everything we use electricity for. There are some things that magic can't help with, though. One of them is long distance transportation. While a Babbler can cast a spell to move themselves and some others across the space-time continuum, it's not exactly feasible for everyday use, even for a majority of Babblers. All but the rarest of horses tend to get sick around most types of magic, and the more magical flying beasts are not available for public use. So, somewhere along the lines, the Mitites either invented or borrowed the idea for the internal combustion engine. The car that the Academy loaned to me is nice too, all leather interior, spacious back seat. Perfect date car. Too bad I'm on my way to buy another human being. Mind, body and soul.   
Just like that I'm back to brooding. Thunder rumbles it's consent. I stare out the windshield, alone on the road, and wrestle with my morals. Rationale seem to be winning, since I really don't have a choice. Either be ready to accept this strange new development in my life, or be prepared to leave the Academy and never come back. I sigh, and send up a prayer for guidance. I hear nothing in return, but still recieve some level of comfort. Lightning flashes, flinging me into yet another vision.

A shivering form leans against a wet wall, teeth chattering and body shaking. His head is tucked to his too-thin chest, and his too-thin arms and wrapped around his torso. I reach my hand forward to lift his face and

I swerve back onto the read from where I was, half on and half off of the road. I shake my head, horrified about what almost just happened. Sr. Bina is right; I really need to learn some control. I glance at the dash for the millionth time, expecting LED's to shine back at me. The dash is dead and cold, lifeless. Rain starts to drum on the roof, and I see the marks that keep rain and snow off the windshield flare. I shiver a bit, somehow feeling the cold wind even through the thick glass. I crank the heater and switch on the heated seats. I have no idea how they work, without electricity. I'm pretty sure the heat comes from the engine, but maybe it's a set of runes. I'll have to figure it out later. Right now, I'm on a mission. I sigh and gun the engine, eager to get to where I'm going.

I step out of the car into the rain. It's coming down hard, slamming me like pennies. I do not want to be here. I'm only doing it because I need this to continue living my life. That's what I tell myself anyway. A pouch of coins has replaced the gumballs on my left hip, and I have a note signed by Sr. Bina himself saying I have first pick of any slave that attracts my fancy. I sigh and shake my head, starting forward. I tip my head back to see where I am going.  
The wind howls at me, but I don't feel it, and only the occasional raindrop finds its way to my face. I am dressed in the finest outdoors clothing I own, a thick black felted wool vest, a dark blue linsey-woolsey shirt under that, with tough cotton pants, close to blue jeans, on my legs. I wear shiny black boots to traverse the mud that is being churned up all over the vast field outside the slave pens. On my head is a wide brimmed hat, to keep the water off my head and face. On my shoulders sits a seemingly thin cloak. It is black like everything else, made of oiled linen. The water slides right off. What you can't see from the outside is the way it blocks the wind too. No air passes through the weave, and no heat escapes the little tent of warmth I've compounded inside my body tent. It's protection is far from natural. I didn't spell it myself, but it is the best the Guild has to offer. Between it, and my wool clothing, I am a warm, relatively happy, young man.  
Others aren't so lucky. As I get closer to the slave fields proper, I see more and more slaves dressed in the bare minimum, clad only in the thin blue shorts and dresses of their station. On the left wrist of every slave is a thin black bracelet. They shiver and shake in the wind and rain, teeth chattering and bones rattling. No one here cares though, and the grayness in keeping me from feeling too badly about their plight. No matter how much I did right now, I would not be able to help more than maybe three, and that would be on the Academies dime. Not something I want to think about. So, I just keep walking, ignoring the small ball of hatred and disgust sitting in my stomach.  
The slave fields themselves are huge, probably the size of five or six footballs all in all. Gigantic light globes half surrounded by some sort of mirrored surface light the area, reminiscent of a football stadium. Slaves are everywhere, mostly doing physical tasks. Some are sorting through what looks like garbage, some digging holes, while others work out in groups; Doing jumping jacks, sit ups, push ups, you name it. Probably the only exercise they get all day. About six hundred feet away, I see tall wooden poles in the distance. The actual pens, where they keep the slaves when they aren't on display. Off to my right, about two hundred feet away, I spot a building. It is relatively small, only housing two or three rooms, I would say. There is what looks like a garage jutting from the side. It's made of a variety of stones, seemingly slip shod in it's construction. It's the only building in sight, though, so I figure it has to be the main office. I head toward it.  
As I get closer, I see a small window, reminiscent of the windows of a bank, with a small, bald man sitting behind the glass. As I approach, I see he's reading a small book. I knock twice on the window, and he jumps a bit. Looking up, he scowls at me and asks, in a voice like a gravel truck, “What?”  
I'm in fine form, chiva flaring at his insolence, and I take a breath to start in on his hair, his clothing, anything I can do to take him down a couple notches. I stop, surprised by the intensity of the urge. I shake my head and center myself again.  
“Hello. I'm here to buy a slave.” I say, letting out a small smile, as though he were actually being pleasant. He squints his eyes at me and scoffs.  
“Fine time to come, in the wind and rain. Can't you come back for it another time. I'm busy.” He gives me a very good stank eye, the with his right eye almost closed, the other one wide open. 'Go Away', Yet another odd custom here. Lot's of very obvious, non-verbal communication.  
I let my smile turn a little stale, and chuckle a bit. “Oh yes, you look very busy.” Thinly veiled sarcasm. “If time wasn't of the essence, I wouldn't be here right now. Unfortunately, I need a slave tonight. So you need to help me.” I let my eyes go a little cold, which turns out to be a bad choice. The man bristles, drawing himself up, his face coloring.  
“Now see here, young man. I have been working hard all day long, and the last thing I need right now is some uppity punk ordering me around at the end of my shift. Now, bugger off.” I may have edited his outburst a bit, since some of the language doesn't translate. You wouldn't want to hear it anyway.  
This man has annoyed me thoroughly, and I am quite ready to let my chiva take over. My entire expression goes passive, disconnected, haughty. I take the note from Bina out of my pocket and slide it through the small opening at the bottom of the window. “Hear me, sir. I am here to do business with you, put money in your pocket, and you are trying to turn me away? You, sir, are a public servant. You need to be ready to serve the public. I require your assistance today, right now, and you will give it to me. Understood?” While I had been making this little speech, he had been reading the note. The more I spoke, the less color was left in his face. By the time I got done, he was out of his chair and down some hall I couldn't see, moving as fast as he could. Mages, even those as relatively insignificant as me, are to be treated with respect. We stand above the law, since it was the Mages who make the goods; the Mages who heal the sick; the Mages who fight and win their wars and the Mages who sit in the seats of government. I smile a bit, my sadistic streak singing. I love making jerks like that sweat. An older Mage may have had him punished for his insolence, despite the fact that he wasn't aware of my status. I just feel like playing with him a bit.  
I reach through the opening below the window to retrieve the note while I listen to the banging about in the back, pulling the mans book to me in the process. It's a slinky novel with a picture of a mans face being pressed into the dirt by a boot. Interesante. A scan of the back cover reveals it's written from the slave's perspective. Curiouser and curiouser..   
I flip the book over, turn it around and put it back into place as the man runs around the corner, face red and huffing like mad. The rain streams through the air around him, avoiding him like an invisible umbrella hangs above his head. Not his enchantment, so it must be something he bought. I look over his silk shirt, soft wool vest and smoothspun pants, all very good quality. A small gold charm glimmers at his throat. The umbrella charm I presume. If it's made of gold then it's of the highest quality. He is short, squat and fat. He obviously eats well and exercises little. The slaves starve while he lives an easy life. Life isn't fair, right. I smile, deciding to be a little rough on him. If you can't beat them, join them.   
“What took you so long?” I ask him. I know it's unreasonable, but honestly, he deserves it.  
“I'm sorry, my Lord. I'm sorry. Just bear with me a moment.” He looks at me for approval, and a stab of compassion hits me in the stomach. I relent, and nod my head. I guess I really shouldn't be mad. The society that he lives in validates this practice. It's really not his fault, no more than it's my fault that I have a stigma about showering daily. Doesn't mean I'll give him an easy time though.  
The man holds out his right hand, palm up. I press my right hand onto his, palm down. I drag my hand back toward myself, the Mitean handshake. “My name is Roksboran Milban. I am the head of sales here. I apologize for my impertinence earlier. It's been a long day.”  
I maintain my disinterested demeanor. “What happened?” I ask, out of politeness only.   
He makes a disgusted noise. “Well, a new shipment of chattle was supposed to come in today, but there hasn't been any news of them yet. As you can see, we're rather understocked.” He sweeps his hands out over the muddy field. It seems to be pretty darn stocked to me, but I hold my tongue. “The shipment was going to fill in some gaps that have opened up in our stock recently. The Governor is holding a ball, and is in need of some entertainment. Cleared a huge chunk out of my Body-slave stock.” We start to make our way over to where the slaves are as he continues to complain. I let my mind wander, wondering why I'm not more nervous about this. I don't feel ashamed about buying another person, or queasy about my surroundings. I'm angry that this practice happens, but even that has taken a back seat. All I can think about is the coming meeting between me and my slave, feeling apprehension, excitement and a touch, only a touch, of disgust.  
“Then, on top of that, some new project just started up in Ravin that needed a whole cartload of work-slaves. Nearly cleared me out. I've been short on Personal-slaves for awhile, and with the shift into a peace time economy, the demand far exceeds the supply. You know how that goes.” I nod, even though I really didn't. The closest thing in my mind is what we learned about WW1.   
“I'll call the personal slaves.” Roksboran says. He lifts a small silver whistle on his neck and blows four notes, two long, two short. All at once, women break off from the masses and rush us. I almost flinch, thinking they're going to run straight into us. Suddenly, the first one stops, snapping into perfect slave posture. Back straight, eyes down, hands locked in the small of her back. All the others file in behind her, forming two rows of shivering forms. I am shocked, and a little appalled, at the speed and precision of their actions. Called with a whistle, like a dog. I maintain my mask, though. It is crucial now.  
I walk amongst the rows, observing the slaves. Roksboran follows like an eager puppy, making inane comments about this girl and that, saying things I block out for his sake. I may be compassionate, but my chiva tends to strain that, and I've never been in a situation like this before without Sarin to guide me and keep me calm. As I stand to inspect a fine young woman with long brown hair and beautiful eyes, he walks over and taps her right breast with his hand and says, “Getting a little saggy, aren't you? Won't be worth much for much longer.” And then laughs. Right then, any pretense of being kind is dropped. The malice of the chiva moves forward, and I instantly work through ways in my mind to get him to shut up. I am only half paying attention to the girls, focusing as I am on other things. I know that what I seek isn't here.  
It's not that they aren't attractive. They are beautiful, one and all. They've been bred that way. All different shapes, colors and sizes, they are the products of the finest, most beautiful woman of all the countries Mitaen has invaded over the past two hundred years. That's what Mitaen does to fuel their slave trade. Attack, kidnap, breed, sell. Make's good economic sense, but turns my stomach. If I had met any of them back at home, I would have killed for a chance to talk to any of them, and here I would be honored to have anyone of them at my side. As it is, my body reacts to the idea of them serving me, my mind running through all the things I would want to do once one of them was in my possession.   
Thing is, each and every one is obedient to a T. As a test, I ask one girl to stand on one foot and hop in place. She does this, instantly, splashing all those around her. No one moves, no one blinks, and I can barely taste any emotion. They really have been trained since birth. The thought makes me sad.  
The closer I get to the end of the lines, the faster Roksboran talks. He comments about this and that, trying more and more to get my attention. He's used to running these transactions, so me ignoring him is freaking him out. I smile slightly. As I get to the last girl, he grabs my sleeve. It's nothing, really, just something to get me to acknowledge his presence. I whirl on him, though, fast as I can. He cringes back, and I ignore the gesture. Instead, I simply say, “I'd like to see the males.” and turn and walk away.  
I hear him spluttering, and then him start to run to catch up to me. I stop walking as a bolt of lightning lights the sky, and I flinch a bit in anticipation for the vision I'm sure will come. It doesn't at first, leaving me feeling foolish, and then I feel it. Smooth skin under my hands, soft laughter in my ears, a fire in my gut. In an instant, the feelings are gone. Without a doubt, though, I know the “vision” was about my slave.  
I hear Roksboran whistle four times behind me, this time two short, two long. All the women run for the distant pens, while I see a herd of shapes rush towards us from the same place. Soon, we're surrounded by young men of all ages and sizes, forming two circles around me and Roksboran. Most are breathing hard, and all are shivering. All are wearing the blue slave shorts, and all have these shorts stuck to them like they've been glued in place. Once again, all are beautiful. Once again, my body rejoices as my gut recoils.  
I walk in a circle, looking for the face the would complete my quest here, get me on my way home. I walk from slave to slave, running my hands over their chests and backs, checking teeth and eye color. I revel in the feeling of the smooth muscle under my hands even as my gag reflex is clawing at my stomach. I ignore it, and remember what Sarin had told me about buying a good slave.  
“You need a strong slave, since they often get caught up in the personal vendettas the Magekin get into. They need to be strong in body, mind, and spirit. Being good looking doesn't hurt either, but strength should come first.” Her advise has never been anything but good, and I'm not about to start doubting that now.  
“So, what would make one of these slaves stronger than another?” I think to myself. Slaves are trained to be quick in their obedience and to carry out the tasks assigned to them fully and completely every time. They are trained to be totally attached to their Master, and to need his word and permission to do anything less rudimentary than blinking. Basically, they're trained not to think.  
I walk over to the closet slave, and shorter man with blonde hair and fair skin. He is beautiful, and my bodies reaction intensifies at that observation. I should be embarrassed. I'm not. “What's your favorite color?” I ask the man. His flinch is almost violent, shaking his whole body. His eyes never leave the ground, and he starts stuttering.   
“Uh, buh, uh. I d-d-don't kn-n-n-now master. What do you want it to be?” is all he can get out. I shake my head and move two slaves over. Before I can continue my questioning, however, Roksboran interrupts me.  
“Well, what are you doing, my Lord? Talking to the slave as though he can answer a question like that. It's a right shame, it is. Honestly...” His voice has officially started to cause my ears to hurt, and I see my opening.   
I spin a half circle, wet grass assisting in my smooth motion, and face him. I feel my chiva rush into my face and I give him my most withering stare. “Shut. Up. If I need your assistance, I will ask for it. Is that clear? Other than that, I don't want to hear anything come out of your mouth, understand, Baldy?” I spit at him. I'm not as pissed as I sound, but he doesn't need to know that. He sputters twice, trying to form words and then falls silence. I turn back to the slave in front of me, repeating my question.  
This one is ready. “Purple, sir.” He is a tall, strong young man, maybe 20 years old at the most, with a thick sheet of soaked hair covering his chest. He too has his eyes glued to the ground.   
I smile. At least he learns quick, and shows adaptability. Another test, then. “Why?” He shakes his head, then his whole body. I see his close his eyes, pressing his lips together and make a very small noise in the very back of his throat. He looks two inches from exploding, like Beaker on the Muppet’s. I move on.  
Behind me, Roksboran is wringing his hands, squeaking periodically, then clamping down and silencing his comments. I can feel his discomfort, his anger. He is mad at me, and probably rightly so. He was only doing his job. Part of me, a small part, cares. Most of me is noticing something else. Something very very odd.  
All through my time inspecting the slaves, I haven't felt much in the way of emotion. All around us, there are slaves laboring and exercising. I get whiffs from them, exhaustion like an old musty shirt, and hunger, like a cavity in my stomach. Anger, at being out in the rain, and discomfort, like ozone. From the slaves assembled in front of me I get nothing. Far as I'm concerned, they should be mad at the fact that they're slaves, annoyed at being on display like this, hopeful of being bought (For a change in scenery if nothing else), or at the very least, uncomfortable from the rigid positions they are held in. Still, I get nothing. I wonder if this is a spell, to make them as unobtrusive as possible. Or have they really had their emotion beaten out of them. Both ideas anger me. I move on.  
I turn to the next young man... Well, boy, really. He looks to be a two years younger than my 17, and thin as a rail. His hair is shaven, and his eyes a bright brown. It doesn't look like he's started shaving yet. He actually meets my eyes for a moment before looking away. Probably not been in service long, if he shows that much life. Might be a good candidate, even though he doesn't look like the one from my vision. Worth a try though.  
“What's your favorite color?” I repeat. He reacts almost comically.  
“Yellow sir.!!” He yells out, like some we're in some demented parody of a military movie. I smile a bit at his energy. One point to him.  
I follow with, “Why is it your favorite?”   
He takes a moment more, and I see his walls snap back into place. His eyes drop and he says, “It reminds me of cake.”  
My heart breaks. I wanna puke, or strangle the short man squeaking beside me. I shove it aside, where the grayness can chew it up and neutralize it. I decide on one more test before making my decision. As I open my mouth to ask, though, a flash of lightning lights the sky. My mind blanks out.

A thin shape huddles in front of the back seat of my car, where your feet are supposed to go. The shape wears my cloak, but I have pushed the cloak up over his shoulders, exposing his back so I can see the lash marks. I spread numbalm on the lacerations, feeling it soak into my fingers, and the boy sighs under my touch. I feel relieved, because he isn't flinching from me anymore.

I come to surrounded by hands. I am being held up by twenty pairs of hands, under all parts of my back and arms. I must have fallen over, because I feel worry all around me. This is the first emotion I've felt from this group. They really do only care for their Masters. I don't know whether to be amazed or appalled.  
The feel of so many hands touching me is like holding onto an electric fence. It feels sooo good, but I know I can't stay like for long. I groan a little bit and fling myself from their hold. I brush myself off and stand up straight. All around me, the slaves have resumed their stances, totally without change. I find the boy I was questioning before and stand in front of him. Roksboran is at my left hip, but I ignore him yet again.   
“Drop your arms and turn around.” I tell him. I feel a flash of fear, then resignation. He releases his arms and turns. His back is clean and unblemished. I am stumped. If this isn't my boy, than where is he. I walk throughout the circles of slaves, staring at their backs. None are hurt. No cuts, no bruises. Not even many scars since they are meant to be on display. I shake my head and let my vision drift. Where could he be? Suddenly, another bolt of lightning hits. I think for sure I'm going into another vision, but I'm wrong. When I blink away the spots, I'm staring at six distant objects. They appear tall, and fairly thick. They're probably 200 feet away, and standing a good bit apart. I see a small number of people milling around the structures, not really leaving. Some appear to be leaning on them.  
I turn to Roksboran, who gives off a wave of trepidation as he meets my eyes. I am kind though, or at least I'm not mean. I point to the area in question. “What are those?” I ask him.  
His eyes pop a bit, and his trepidation turns to anger, and suspicion. “The whipping posts.” His eyes narrow. “I've got every right to discipline the slaves I keep here. You're one of those 'Human Rights' freaks, aren't you? I knew there was something wrong with you...”  
I should be enraged by his lack of decorum and respect, but I'm not listening. I'm already walking toward the Posts. Well, 'walking' may be an exaggeration. I am almost running, my heart beating faster than my feet. The whipping posts! How could I be so naïve? I keep having visions of this kid, freshly whipped, and I don't think to check the place where that type of abuse is perpetrated? What's wrong with me?  
As I near the posts, I see there are six posts, each about seven feet tall and as thick as an medium tree. Set into their height are a series of metal rings, to tie the accused to. I see that five of the six are occupied, with the first post supporting a figure that hangs by the wrists. I head quickly for that one as I tune into Roksboran's rant for a moment.  
“... Can't expect me to put up with such caca. I reserve the right to refuse sale, you know? I have half a mind to call the authorities in here right now, young man. You had better slow down!” The last part is shouted, and I stop. I spin again, fixing his small, beady eyes with my own.   
“Are you threatening me, sir?” I ask him, malice making my voice sharp. I feel something warm grown behind my eyes, and Roksboran takes a sharp breath in. “I would not advise that, good Sir. I may be just an intern, but I am still far more important and, unfortunately for you, dangerous than you are.” I sketch the rune for 'upheaval' with my fingers and fling it at the ground in front of him. It explodes, showering him in mud and pebbles. I do the same at the air above his head, and the rain turns to a steam that revolves around him. Another shot at his feet has him stumbling backward. I stalk over to him, grabbing him by his shirt collar. I look straight into his eyes, wide in terror, and grin a slick, sick smile. “And I thought I told you to shut up.” I fling him to the ground, and turn. I feel him deflate behind me, and I ignore him once again. He doesn't follow me.  
Briefly, I marvel at the lack of emotion that went into that exchange. It didn't feel anything more than natural, like swatting an annoying fly. I should be worried. Oh well.  
I approach the first post, and the figure held there. My heart leaps as I recognise the position, wrists bound to the metal rings, and then falls again as I realize it is a woman. Outrage flashes through me, but I thrust it into the grayness. I have a mission. No use getting distracted.  
I move on, past the second man tied to the post, and the guard chained to the one past that. I look at him with a mild amusement, hoping this will give him some compassion towards those in his care. Roksboran follows behind, not defeated, but silent for once. I feel oddly proud of breaking him, even if it's only for a moment. I really don't like the slimy little creep. I kick idly at a pebble and look up past the brim of my hat. That's when I see the fifth post.  
The small group I had seen earlier is clustered around this post, talking and nudging each other at what is in the middle. This is what interested me. My pace picks up again, and I leave Roksboran behind me. I am moving at just under a run, my heart pounding my ribcage. There he is. My boy.  
There's no doubt about it. Same build, same skin, same... Lashes. A man stands behind him, whip in hand. He shouts a number each time the whip moves forward, creating a harsh cadence that inspires nausea in me.   
“Ten!” He shouts, and the whip cracks.  
“Eleven!” He hollers, the wet leather making a blood curdling slap as it hits the boys skin. Oddly, I'm calmer now than I was before. Being this close to my prize has me feeling complacent. I stand next to the crowd, listening to them talk.  
“Yeah, this was the one. Took out two guards when he was here last.”  
“Really? Was he the one they had to send to the Center, in Drogan?”  
“Yes, he was. Took them twice as long to break him, I hear. Looks like it was worth it though. The little creep's finally learned his station.”  
For some reason, this makes me a little happy. To know that this kid, whoever he is, put up such a fight. There's the fire I've been looking for. I take a deep breath through my nose, registering amusement and excitement. I even caught a whiff of arousal from the man in front of me. Now I'm disgusted. I inch away from the man as a twelfth stripe is laid on the slaves back. The man with the whip moves forward to the boy, running his hands over the boys back. The boy makes a small sound and flinches, but otherwise there is no reaction. I decide, with that same odd clarity, that this is my time. Weirdly enough, I almost feel like whistling. I'm so close to being done with this whole thing. I dunno. I blame it on bidanu. Or, maybe I'm just sick in the head.  
I look around me, searching for Roksboran. He is standing by the empty fourth pole. I wave him over. He drags his feet all the way. Around me, the crowd of people disperses, save one. A tall man in all black, oblivious to the rain. He looks at me from underneath soaked bangs. Weird...  
I turn to Roksboran as he nears me. He looks at me with a dull stare, and pops a single eyebrow. “Yes?”  
I turn away from him once again. I point at the boy. “I want him.” I hear Roksboran suck in a breath, and he gives off a wave of anger and fear. It stings my nostrils. Before he can protest, I cut him off. “Is there a problem?”  
His eyes come up. They are cold, angry, but none of that emotion shows in his voice as he says, “That boy right there? You want him?” Perfectly cultured, almost polite. All the while, he stares daggers into me.  
“Yes, I want him. Is there a problem with that?”   
Roksboran's eyes light up, and I smell something that could only be triumph flash through his aura. “Yes, there is a problem.” I raise and eyebrow. More anger. “He's here because he is a problem. He has an attitude, and it's out job to fix him. He is not for sale.” Roksboran gives me a slimy smile, and I feel like I need another shower.  
I return his smile with one of my own. “Is there another person that holds his contract?” I ask. I have the right to usurp any civilian, and am fully ready to do this.   
Roksboran probably knows this, but does his best to not let me know that. “No, his previous owner terminated her involvement. The thing is, I'm not at liberty to...”  
I raise a hand to silence him. “So, you are refusing me my first choice, insulting my competence, and defying the orders of the High Guildsmaster himself? Do I have that right?” I click my tongue at him and cock my head to the side and give him my best 'hmmm' face. “Now, is that really smart?”  
Roksboran stands there for a moment, literally shaking with rage. I can actually see it, it's so potent. It hovers around his head like a fiery cloud, deep red and crackling. My nose twitches as I take in the smell of burnt rubber, and I my skin feels taught and stretched, like I'm sitting too close to a fire. I just stand there and wait. Finally, after about two minutes, it is like a switch is thrown. The red cloud disappears, and I smell the cool rain of calm. Roksboran's shoulders drop, and he nods his head. “No. I am sorry, my Lord. All the arrangements will be made. Gustav here will help you with that, and you may direct any questions to him.” He motions to the man in black. With that, Roksboran dips his head to me once, and promptly turns away. I let him go, glad to be rid of him. I walk toward the boy chained to the post. I motion the man, Gustav, and he walks towards me. If it wasn't for the fact that he reeks of the stale-crackers smell of boredom and indifference, he might have seemed a kind soul. As it was, he seems closer to a zombie.  
“So, can I inspect the merchandise?” I ask Gustav. He gives me a look that says, “Really?” and I nod. He reaches out to touch manacle. The boy shakes at Gustav's close proximity, and I smell fear, blood and stale urine. I can't really see much about his skin color in the harsh light of the glow orbs besides how light he is. He is smeared with God knows what kind of muck, which quickly mixes with fresh mud as the manacles click open and he drops to the ground. He kneels weakly, his head bobbing with the effort of staying upright. I feel sad looking at him. He looks so small, thin and shaky. He is shivering from the cold and, possibly, the pain of his beating. I give him a moment to recover and ask Gustav, “So, why was he being beaten?”  
Gustav gives me a dry look and I smell annoyance, like it's asking a lot of him to answer that simple question. He shrugs, “Someone just returned him, not really saying why. Since he has a history of being difficult, we decided to remind him of his station. Besides, this is standard procedure for the chattle we get back for not living up to standards.” With that, he snaps his jaw shut and glares at me. His look says it all. 'Dare you to ask me again.'  
I roll my eyes and kneel in front of the boy. I take a deep breath. I smell the same things as before, with some confusion and, above all else, exhaustion. I take him in again, and something dings inside of my head. I know this boy from somewhere. From the murky depths of memories I can't quite remember anymore, I hear a name. John. I get a brief flash of a boy, dressed in a basketball uniform, jumping up to perform a lay-up. My heart pounding as I briefly make eye contact. I grip his chin, lifting his face so I can see it. My shadow blocks me from being able to see him, so I shift to the right. When I do, my heart stops, and my blood runs cold. I jump up, scrabbling backwards in a blind panic. I feel it, the anxiety of remembering, the fear of the known and the panic that comes from not knowing. Suddenly, it's just like back in my new apartment. I'm overcome with the emotion, hyperventilating and spinning within my own mind. This can't be. He can't be. I must be having another vision, or a dream, because what my eyes have seen can't be possible.  
A whole flock of my old memories surge to the surface, bashing the inside my skull and the backs of my eyes like a heard of angry monkeys deprived of their banana's. I see people, places, colors, events. I see my old school, hear stupid jokes told by my old friends, and finally see who the boy really is. John Stalgerson, a classmate of mine. The reason I realized I like guys as much as girls. He had moved into our tiny little town when I was in third grade. All the girls fell for him, which was nothing more than an annoyance for me since it meant they wanted less to do with me. I pretty much ignored him the next two years, much more involved with reading and theater. Then, one day, I walked into fifth grade and it was like I was hit with a bolt of lightning.  
I remember him sitting there in his desk, wearing a black sleeveless shirt, his hair messy from skateboarding to school, a slight sheen of sweat covering the portion of chest I could see. And that was that. After that, I was hooked. Even as the years went on, and I had had maybe three conversations with him, I still dreamed about him coming out, to me or in public. He was the sole focus of my affections all through fifth grade, and never far from my fantasy's after that. Even when I decided that girls were alright, he still broke my heart every time he walked into the room. And here he was now, right in front of me, ripe for the picking. I silently gasp for air, feeling like a fish out of water, feeling the wetness of the grass soaking through my cloak. That was one thing the Guild hadn't spelled for, I guess. Butt wet.   
The sensation snapped me out of my episode, and I climb to my feet. Suddenly, I understand what Sarin had said about emotions being wonky during bidanu a whole lot better. I shook off the last of the panic as I looked over at Gustav. He had schooled his face impassive, but I could feel the amusement from here, like being tickled. I ignored him and resumed my place in front of the boy. In front of John. He is sitting in the same place, shivering in the same way. Hadn't moved a bit. The only change is that his emotions have mellowed, save the exhaustion. “Stand up, boy.” I order him.  
He stands on shaky legs, and my stomach bottoms out once again. In the bleached light of the bulbs, I realize just how skinny he has gotten over the last year, assuming he was abducted at the same time as I had been. Considering he didn't have any fat on him when I had seen him last, the fact that he had lost body mass was troublesome to say the least. I can count most, if not all, of his ribs, and his collar bones are far too pronounced. Still, he's kept some muscular definition, and the age old reaction flames through my body as I remember all the times I had spied on him in the locker room, or the times I had seen him in the pool. As quick as it came on, my arousal is tinted with disgust, and then that merry little cocktail gets a dose of frustration. I thrust all these things aside as I focus on the business aspect of the situation. If I entertain emotion too long, I might slip back into yet another fit.  
“Arms out, away from your body.” I order him. His arms come out, shaking with his shivering. I hear his teeth chattering, and smell the misery and exhaustion he must be feeling. I forgo the inspection I'm expected to make if I'm to keep up appearances, and instead motion for him to drop his arms again. He wraps them around his midsection for a moment before remembering that he is on display. He attempts to get his arms locked behind him, but hisses with the pain it causes him. I feel it too, twelves hot lances of pain across my back. I motion for him to be still, and he complies. Well, he comlies as much as one can while being on the brink of hypothermia.  
I turn to face Gustav. “Is there anyway I can examine him inside the building. I'm soaked and freezing, and I hardly feel this is an appropriate setting for this.” I state. I wait, expecting some sort of resistance. All Gustav does, though, is shrug and start walking towards the building. I motion for John to follow, too numb to try to speak to him again. He's numb also, although in an entirely different way. I feel the pins and needles race up my legs as he tries to start forward, and stumbles instead. He falls to the ground again, and sits there shaking. I reach my hand down to help him up, but he ignores it, mumbling, “Sorry, Sir.” and attempting to stand again. I see Gustav waiting for us about fifty yards away. John falls once again, and another family of spiders races up and down my legs. I mutter to myself and reach down to grip his arm and pull him up.   
When I get him standing again, I say, “Wait there for a moment,” and reach up to touch the clasp of my cloak, a golden turtle. The shell breaks in half, and the clasp pops open. I reach for John's left arm and pull it around my neck. I slip my right arm around his back, supporting him. I feel his surprise, and confusion, but I ignore it. I situate the cloak over both of our shoulders and start walking forward. John limps next to me, his legs not wanting to work. An absent part of me is screaming a me, begging me to pay more attention to how close I am to this beautiful boy. I thrust it aside, feeling a migraine coming on. When we meet up with Gustav again, he gives me a look.  
“What? Was I supposed to have him crawl back on his hands and knees?” I ask, incredulous. I feel Johns panic at my words and realize that that's probably what a lot of people would have done. I absentmindedly full him closer, feeling sick. Gustav just turns and starts walking again. We follow.  
When we've covered about half the distance to the building, John leans his head close to my ear and my nerves go haywire. Through the mini-stroke my mind is going experiencing as his breath huffs into my ear, I hear him say. “I think I can walk now.” He starts to pull away, out from under my cloak, and I stop him.  
Sweeping the cloak from my shoulders, I settle it onto his. My clothes are soaked instantly. His eyes, trained on the ground, bug out as I smell surprise and fear roll off of him. He starts stuttering and shaking, trying to form words. I know what he is trying to say. “No, I can't.”   
I just nod my head and say, “You can use it. You're no use to me as and ice block, alright?”  
He shakes his head, making a small strangled noise. “But...”  
My chiva snaps into place before I realize it, and I hiss, “Are you questioning me, boy?” He falls silent instantly. A surge of... Something goes through me, like pride, or excitement. He obeyed me. It feels so good.  
I ignore it, though, and go to apologize. Then I remember the situation we're in. I see him shaking, this time less from fear than from sheer cold. Actually, now that I think about it, his fear and confusion seemed to disappear when I gave him that order. I decide to leave it for now. I hear a whistle up ahead, and see that Gustav has stopped to wait for us again. I head towards him, feeling John do the same. This time when we catch up to him, I don't even acknowledge his questioning look. I just grunt and start forward again. I know I'm not acting like a usual member of the Guilds, but I can't help it. I sort of don't care anymore, either. All I want is to get this done. Then, I can take John home. My heart soars at the thought, and I grin stupidly. Oh, the things I could do to him...  
That thought brings me up short. Literally. I stop in my tracks, appalled that such a thought would come from my head. John bumps into me from behind, and I feel the wet wool scratch my skin. This is usually a huge sensory trigger for me, but this time I barely notice it. I start forward again as I consider this new development.   
Many Guildfolk use their personal-slaves for those sorts of purposes. I know most Guildsfolk don't get married while they're active, and most don't even date. It distracts from the good of the State, making you think of yourself. So, to let off steam, pretty much everyone has at least one slave who... Entertains those notions, if you know what I mean. I'm not one of those people though. … Right?  
We arrive at our destination, the side entrance to the stone building, and Gustav stops. He turns to look at me and says, “Head inside. I'll clean the boy up for you and bring him in. In the mean time, you can meet with our Sales Coordinator, Revi. She'll walk you through the rest of the process.” He pulls the glass door open and holds it there, obviously expecting me to go inside.   
I turn to look at John, who is standing a respectful distance back, on my left. He is huddled into my cloak, still shaking. I really don't want to leave him, half out of concern and half out of the need to keep him in my sight, to prove he's mine. I want even less to leave him with this cold, uncaring man. I sigh. Better cold and uncaring than hot and exuberant, I suppose. Gustav may not like the boy, but I don't peg the guy as the sadistic type, so John will probably be alright. I move toward the door, and Gustav stops me. He smiles at me a bit and says, “Don't forget your cloak, my Lord.” I could be wrong, but I think I detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice. I nod and go to retrieve my cloak from John. He is trying to open the clasp, but isn't having any luck. It will only open to a magic touch. I take it from him and fold it once over my arm. I grip his chin in my right hand, lifting his head just a bit. His eyes flee from contact with mine, panic setting in again. I sigh, feeling worry on the edges of my mind. Before I can change my mind, I turn and walk into the building, leaving a shuddering, exhausted boy in the rain.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting Home and into bed proves to be a challenge.

Chapter 5

 

            Yeah... So, I've decided that present tense is way too complicated, and a little uncomfortable. So, I'ma be a little more regular. You know, past tense, story-telling style. I dunno how it'll go, since I tend to fudge that up too, so let me know what you think, k?

 

The car ride back to the Academy was... Awkward, to say the least. I had to keep an eye on the road, since the rain was coming down pretty stinking hard by now. I had been in that little rock box of a building for an hour, jumping through loop after loop , ring after ring. I probably should have been a better customer to Roksboran, since I had never heard of paper work being needed to buy a slave, especially for a Mage.  I don't regret it now, though. The only thing I really cared about was in my back seat, shivering.

            Well, not really _in_ my back seat, but in front of it.

            They had brought John in when I was about half way through the Bureaucratic Bullcrap. He was still filthy, but they had cleaned parts of him. I'm sure they wouldn't have dared brought a slave in in that condition for anyone else, but like I said; I really didn't care at that point. It was odd, the way they had brought him to me. Only part of his leg had been cleaned, above his knee. I found out what the odd wash job was about shortly after that.

            Behind me, A noise shakes me from my revery. I drink in a deep breath and smell much of the same as I had before. Fear, confusion, exhaustion and, now, pain. Jon was kneeling in the space in front of the passenger side backseat, where your feet usually go. He's not a small boy, so it was a cramped space for him. I had wanted him in the passengers seat in the first place, but the woman who had handled the paperwork for me had insisted, saying it “Wasn't proper,” and generally making a fuss. Thing is, they were far away in my rear view by now, and what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Well, not until I decided it would.

            I stop the car, pulling over slightly. You really don't have to worry about traffic on these roads, especially this late at night. Still, I left the lights on, just in case. I got out of the car, feeling the rain drench me yet again. I really didn't care about that either, really. I was wearing my wool vest, and that was enough for now. I shut my door and walked to the trunk, pressing my thumb to the panel that opened it. The trunk popped open and I grabbed the bottle of numbalm I had requested. Just another thing that had pissed them off. I was kinda enjoying doing that towards the end.

            Snapping the trunk shut, I walk over to John's door. As I open it, I see him visibly tense. The same mixture of emotions roll of off him, bathing me in a rather unpleasant itchiness. _Trepidation_. The word popped out of the depths of my memory, in English, unbidden. It was the perfect description for John's emotions, though, so I squirreled it away for future use. I squatted down behind him and placed my hand on his back, feeling him flinch once again. I sighed, feeling bad. One thing that I hated was when people were afraid of me. Well, I hate when they fear me unnecessarily.

            “It's alright. Don't worry, I'm gonna try to make this better” I said, trying to be soothing. I attempt to push calm towards him, but I have no way to know whether I'm successful because the trepidation is as strong as ever. I sigh again and start to push the cloak, which I had redraped over his shoulders before we left, up over his back. I had seen this, I realized with a start. So far, this was the only one of my visions that had come true, play by play. _Interesante_. He shakes even more under my hands, if that's possible.

            Once again, I try to sooth him. “I'm just checking your lash marks, alright? Nothing more. They hurt, don't they?” He nods once, after a moments hesitation. I run my fingers lightly over the angry, red, swollen marks, felling him flinch away from me from time to time. It makes me sad. So far, he doesn't seem to remember me.

            I know I walk a dangerous line, with one wrong step sending me, and John, over a cliff that can't be climbed again. I haven't really given much thought to what our relationship from here on out will be like, but what I do know is that he needs to be able to think for himself, grow some balls back. Also, he needs to trust me. He won't survive in the new world otherwise. He may have had some rough assignments before now, but they're nothing like the life of an Academy slave. I know very little about what they truly have to deal with, but what I _do_ know scares me. So, I need to start building that trust right now, while we're just starting off.

            At the same time, I know I can't just give him all of his old rights and privileges back and expect him to act as though nothing is wrong. I know enough about psychology and, yes, have read enough kinky slash, to know that some part of him really does want this, or thinks it does. If I just drop all structure, he'll probably self-destruct, explode. Or, worse, implode. I want neither. So, I go with the safe approach. Structured, but gentle.

            “Alright, I know this will be weird for you, but I need you to answer all questions I ask you out loud, alright, even if the answer is obvious, alright?” John simply nodded his head. I raised an eyebrow, even though I knew it was pointless. “And what do you say to that?” I ask him.

            “Yes, my Lord.” Comes out at a whispered volume. It's enough for me, though, so I drop the subject.

            As the rain beats a crazy tattoo into my back, and on the metal surface of the car, I trace all of the welts on his back with both of my fingers, counting them. Twelve. Twelve marks criss-cross over his back, raised and still a bit bloody. Covered in muck and yet to be sterilized, they're just waiting to get infected. I shake my head and tap the top of the jar three times and twist the cork to the left, quickly. The wax seal breaks, and a soft purple light infuses the bottle. I set the cork gently on the wet ground and upend the bottle into my left hand. A thick, purple sludge drops out, running slow as molasses. I set the bottle down when I have handful and dip my fingers into the purple slime on my left palm.

            “This may feel oddly, either too warm or too cold, and it will probably make you sleepy, but it will take care of the pain. Alright?” I make my voice as smooth as possible, telling him exactly what I'm doing step-by-step, hoping that will help to ease his fears, but highly doubting it.

            “I'm just spread the numbalm over the lashes, alright? The pain will go away in a minute, alright? I want you to tell me if anything hurts worse after I put this on, though, alright?” I say. John nods his head, and I clear my throat.

            “Yes sir.” Again, in a whisper. Kid must be terrified. I sigh and make my way downward, working the cream in along the upraised tracks. I hiss along with him as I touch a particularly nasty laceration and pain shoots through my back. It disappears almost instantly, though. Hopefully that's because the numbalm has taken care of it. As I work, it soaks into my fingers, making them clumsy and slow. I switch hands three quarters of the way through.

            “You ok?” I ask him as I finish up on the last lash, wiping my hands on my pants and surveying my handwork. His back looks like it's bruised as well as broken, but I can't smell any pain, so that's good. “Is there anything else that hurts?” I ask him, just to be sure. He shrugs. I let out a huff of annoyance and prompt, yet again, “Answer out loud please.”

            “M-mmm-ma...” He stutters, stopping suddenly.

            I press for more. “Your what?”

            His shaking intensifies for a moment, and he whispers, “My leg, my lord. Where they branded it.” Ahh... The brand. I'd almost forgotten about that.

            See, when they had brought him in, the last part of the buying process had been branding him, marking him as my own, forever. I had tried to bypass it, but I guess it's a requirement for any and every Mage in Mitaen, to ensure that everyone knows who's property they are. “For his safety, as well as your own, sir.” The man with the brand had said. Reluctantly, I had agreed.

            Which is how, here in the car, I could still smell the stench of burning flesh, his fear, and behind that, my own disgust. I clicked my tongue and shook my head. “Get out and stand up in front of me, alright?” I took a step back and waited. Slowly, he climbed backwards and stood up. His head was as low as possible and he, still, shook like a leaf. “Spread your legs a bit and open the cloak.” He complied and I squatted in front of him. My body flushed as I realized just what his would look like from the outside. Like one of the fantasies I used to cook up during science while I stared at him. I sighed and said, “Awkward...”  
            “What, my Lord?” John whispered to me. I look up into his eyes, superimposing an entirely different eye in my mind, and flinched away. I took a deep breath and thrust the arousal out of my mind, forcing myself into business mode.

            “Nothing. It's just an odd position, if you know what I mean.” Something told me he did, but instead of relief, I felt only more fear. All these negative emotions were giving me a headache. My nose felt like it had been scalded inside. I snort and move the cloak aside a little more. I see the mark on his left inner-thigh, my mark, livid and bright red against the pale background of his skin. It was almost as tall as my hand, an oval with a cross inside of it. It was the rune for love, the rune that had been chosen to represent me. I had changed one thing to make it mine, lifting the cross piece so it was higher than before, off center. I found it ironic that the sign for love had been used to cause such pain.

            I shook my head once again and scooped out more numbalm. With my left hand I held aside the cloak and smoothed the balm over the damaged skin, feeling his sigh of relief course through me. It helped my nose a bit, and I sighed with him. Despite my 'business' attitude, the feel of his skin under my fingers was almost too much. I had to force myself to focus, to finish the job. When I had covered it all, I screwed the cap back on and stood up, tossing the jar into the back seat.

            John was just standing there, feet still apart and head still down. The rain beat down onto his head, moving his hair left and right, but he made no move to put his hood up. His fear still tainted the air, and after being in such close proximity with him, I could feel his hurts too. His ribs hurt, and his left ankle tweaked. His head was swimming, keeping him from thinking real clearly. His lower back was what hurt the most though. It was like back home, after a rough football game. Like his muscles were tied into knots and punching you in the spine. My heart broke yet again, and I felt that stab of anger, and guilt. I briefly entertained the though of “Is this my fault?”, and ignore it again. I couldn't think about that. Now, I have to focus on John.

            “Alright, we're done here. You can get back in the car and head back to the academy, alright?” I smiled at him, but he didn't see it. He made a move to get into the back seat, but I put out an arm to stop him. “No, you can ride in the front seat. Alright?” Again, he froze. The tidal wave of fear hit him again, and I could feel it far more acutely than before. I put a hand on his arm, attempting to force him into calm again. If anything, the panic intensified. I didn't know what to do, so I do the only thing I can think of. I wrapped him in a hug. The warm fuzzies that I was trying to pass on to him obviously didn't make the transfer, because his body remained as stiff and unyielding as a cold marble statue. I gave up after a moment, and took a step back to get another look at him. The look on his face was too much. All I could say was, “I'm sorry.” I shut the door, opened the passengers side and motioned him in. After a moment, he climbed in and sat down.

            I stood out in the rain for a moment, trying to reign in my emotions. I was seriously getting tired of this soap opera, emotional tumult crap. _Bidanu_ or not, this was stupid. Once and for all, I shoved my emotions aside, and the greyness slammed into place again. I felt a muted wave of relief. Finally, some clear thinking. I dropped into the front seat, turned the key in the ignition, and started off down the road.

 

 

            Next to me, John was sitting stock still, hard and rigid as a statue, staring out into the rainy night. Moments like these, I wished there were radios on Mitean, or iPod's. Anything to break the awkward, monotonous silence. I thought about cracking a lame joke, but I doubted he would get it. God knows what he'd been through over the past year, and who he really was inside. I had a feeling that most of who he had been had been stripped away.

            Granted, most of my experience with breaking slaves had come from hearsay and some trashy fanfiction I'd read back home. The gist of it is always the idea that you have to break them down to little tiny pieces and build them back up. Make them into what you wanted again. I only agreed with half of that, the building. John was already broken. Now all I had to do was put him back together.

            As always, the murky doubts decended. “Is that your right? Can you really do that to another human?” Luckily, the greyness chewed those fears up and spat them out on the road behind us.

            “So, is the numbalm working?” I ask John. He flinches. “It's ok to speak, you know. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise.” I reached over to grip his left knee, and he nearly jumped out of his seat at the touch. “You don't like being touched?” I ask, more likely than not knowing the answer. Like I said, most Mages don't date while active. Hence the “Personal” in personal-slave. “That's alright. We don't have to do that.” I sigh and sink back into silence.

            I ponder what the hell I'm going to do as we make our way back to the Academy. I guess I'll just  try to make the best of the life I've been given. Now, I can try to make the best life for the beautiful boy  sitting in the seat next to me too. In a lot of ways, I've been waiting for this for years. All the way through middle and junior high, I hoped, dreamed, fantasized, wishes and prayed for this boy to be mine, and now he was; Albeit in a twisted and macabre way.

            Honestly, despite the fact that I had all these doubts and worries about how I was gonna live with the kid, and the rights and wrongs of the matter, whether it was my fault he was here, mostly all I was was excited. Excited to have another guy around, besides Kike. Excited to have pulled him out of a shit hole lifestyle, and excited to try to help him out. Mostly, I was excited to have a piece of my home with me.

            When I had gotten here, they had taken everything from me, to “Help me acclimate.”  They had snatched me after school, so I had had all my books, my computer, my kindle, phone, mp3, car keys. They'd taken it all, and more. They'd even taken the clothes off my back. The possibility of talking about everything I missed, all the things _we'd_ missed was tantalizing, to say the least. I'd had to give up so much of myself when I had come here. I mean, have you ever imagined living without pop culture references? It sucks. And they don't have ice cream here. I mean, what the crap?

            “You'll see. Everything is going to change. I promise.” I told him. He briefly looked over at me, and I caught a whiff of something I couldn't identify. Oh well. I was quiet for awhile, focusing on the road, and how the rain had started to let up finally, when I realized something. Hmmm...

            “So, do you remember me?” I asked him. He looked over again, eyes on the dash. He shook his head no. I sighed. “Remember, you're supposed to answer me out loud.” I say. I don't know why that's so hard for him.

            “M-m-my Lord?” He asks, whispering yet again. That was starting to bug me too. “May I say something?”

            I smile, glad he's taking some initiative. “Of course. Say anything you want.”

            He sucks in a quick breath, shocked, but forces himself on. “It's hard for me to speak. I have a Whisper spell in place.”

            “What?” I ask, confused. “What's a Whisper spell?” I'd never heard of it before.

            John took another deep breath, like speaking really was hard for him. “It's to keep me quiet. I have to scream to speak at a normal volume.” I was shocked. Why would they do that to him? It seemed so stupid.

            I remembered what Roksboran had said about him back at the pens. “This one has an attitude problem.” That must be why. I guess I could be proud of his fight, even if that made communications difficult. I was glad that his silence of the whipping post had been out of inability to make a sound rather than the lack of concern for what was happening. That had been a huge fear of mine up to this point.

            “So, talking is hard for you?” I ask, just to clarify. He nods. “Alright, then we'll ignore rule number one and work on removing the spell as soon as we can, alright?” He smells of all the same things as before, but on top of that, muting the other “colors” of his scent, is disbelief. I guess I don't blame him. We lapse back into silence. I have nothing to say, and he has no reason to talk. Somehting bugging me though. What was that? I hate being ADHD sometimes.

            All around us, the rain is tapering off. The clouds are clearing, and I can see the beginnings of Mitaen's moon in the sky. Even if the cities lights pale in comparison to that of Earth, the sky at home could never hope to compete with the sky here. If we have a million stars in the states, they must have a billion here. The nigh sky here isn't black so much as gray, what with the stars crammed so closeley together. The Mitites believe that each star is another planet, another world, and that for every world there is one person that holds the key to its door. They think that the Citizens of Mitaen are incarnations of these worlds, like so many representatives in a galactic congress. It's a deep thought, mystical and almost beautiful idea, one that holds precedence in so much of their society. It seems to be too good to be true.

            It _is_ too good to be true. See, They also happen to believe that since each person holds the key to unlock the door  to “their” world that everything, and everyone, in that world belongs to the Mitite that holds it's key . Hence the Imported slaves and the Expansionist idealogies.

            The whole process reminds me of U.S. History, one of my favorite classes back home. The memories are murky, tainted with _bidanu_ as they are, but I do remember our discussions of the causes of war. In WW1 it was much the same, with Expansionism and Imperialism playing a key part in setting off the chain of events that plunged Earth into the bloodiest confrontation it had ever seen. I remember doing a project on it, probably a month before I was taken. I had been so excited because John had been in my group, which meant I got to spend an entire hour each day for a week with the ability to openly look at him, as much as I wanted. I even had an excuse to talk to him.

            That's what had been bugging me! Me and John. He hadn't answered my question.

            I said as much, and got a sort of questioning look from him. I used his emotions to best guess what he was trying to say. 'What question?'

            “Remember? I asked you if you remembered me.” He nodded. 'I remember.'

            “So,” I say, smiling. “Do you remember me?”

            He cocks his head to the side, actually lifting his gaze to chest level, and cocked his head to the side. I could almost hear the gears in his head turning. 'From when?' His shoulders asked me.

            I had to think of how to put this in Espenia. Which made me wonder why we were still speaking that language when we had our own we could use.

            “It's me.” I answered, in English this time. As the first syllable left my mouth, he tensed even more, but otherwise he did nothing. “It's me, Paul, from your class back home. It's me, John. Don't you remember me?”

            At the sound of his name, he got even stiffer, so stiff I could hear his tendons popping, and started he breathing quicker. “John, what's wrong?” I asked him, reaching over to shake his leg, ignoring my promise not to touch. He threw himself away from my touch, as much as he room for anyway, and started to thunk his head against the window. Confusion, thick and foggy, wafted off of him, tonged heavily with the bite of fear.

            “John, calm down. John!” I said, not knowing what I had done wrong. He slammed his head against the window, clawing at the door like an animal; making a low airy noise, like he was gasping. He threw himself to the left and I slammed on the brakes as he slammed into me, making the car skid crazily on the wet pavement. I closed my hand on his arm to try to keep him still, but that just made him react more violently. As the car came to a full stop, he jerked his arm away from me, his momentum slamming his head into the window. He goes limp, and I was worried he had knocked himself out. I wanted to reach out and shake him, to make sure he's ok, but I know that that's probably not a good move. Before I can ask though, he made the oddest noise.

            I didn't know what it was at first. It sounded like he' was trying to bark or something, with a deep shaky breath in the middle. Then I caught the usual fear and sadness, this time ten times worse. My eyes watered at the intensity. With a start I realized he was crying, and can barely make out words between the sobs.

            It was difficult to understand him, but I managed to make out a few words. “Please... Don't... Bad... Better... Sorry...” His shoulders shook, and he stayed pressed against the window.

            My God... What had brought that on? I mean, all I'd asked was whether or not he'd remembered me. He had acted like he was in pain, throwing himself around like that. He had nearly given himself a concussion, and I don't know what would have happened if he had opened the door. Mitite cars don't have seat belts.

            After a bit, he starts to calm down. I just wait for him to do something, not moving or sayign anything for fear of setting off another fit. After about three minutes, I feel his emotions start to calm down. Lingering in the air is a scent I know, or at least I know the emotions it represents. It's like when you trip up with an adult, unconsciously admitting to them that, Yes, it _was_ you who had switched the shampoo with mayonnaise. That same sinking dread and immobilizing fear, mixed with a wild abandon to right what had gone wrong. It was terrible, and I couldn't place when or under what circumstances I had felt it.

            John draws me from my thoughts. He doesn't move, and I can see he's still shaking, but he whispered to the window, “I'm sorry about that, My Lord. I am ready for whatever my punishment may be.”

            If it hadn't been for the grayness, I may have felt something huge, like rage or sadness. Instead, all I felt was curiosity. “I may have thrown out rule number one, but I was serious about not hurting you.” He sucks in a breath, but I ignore his confusion. “What happened anyways? What did I do?”

            He turns his head towards me, eyes bright with moisture and fear. “You did nothing wrong, My Lord!” It's almost a shout. “No, this was my fault. I couldn't control my emotions. That's what's wrong with me, why I'm worthless.”

            Again, the grayness shuts down anything but professional curiosity as I process what he had said. “You're not worthless. I wouldn't have bought you if you were. And I didn't ask about what you did wrong. I asked about what _I_ did wrong. Tell me.”

            His eyes widen, but he obeys me. “That name, My Lord. That's the name they said wasn't mine, the one they told me to forget about. It's the one they said they'd beat me for if they ever heard me calling myself again. I apologize for my overreaction, My Lord. It will not happen again.” He almost sounded like a robot, but I knew he was still roiling on the inside. Now that we were both calmer, and the grayness had filled me up again, I noticed just how tired he was. Tired and cold. Suddenly, I remembered how cold he had been as I had walked him in from the whipping post. I cursed myself silently and reached over to the panel on the dash, drawing the control marks out to where I could see them. After a moments fiddling, the car filled with a hazy warmth, pulled through he vents from the engine. It felt good to me, so I couldn't imagine how good it must feel for John.

            “There. You should have said something about being cold.” I chuckle a bit, trying to set him at ease once again. I start the car moving again as I as him. “So, if that name is off limits, what name would you like me to call you?”

            He turns his head back towards the window, eyes falling shut and the exhaustion in his scent thickening. He doesn't answer me.

            “Is there a name you'd like? Anything in particular?” I prod. I know he's probably be more comfortable if I just picked the name, names are important to me. I wanted him to pick it.

            After a moment, I hear it, so soft I almost think I'm imagining it. “Joaquin, My Lord.”

            I smile, liking the sound of that. “Alright, Joaquin.” I test the name on my tongue. “Well, we'll be home in an hour or so. Feel free to sleep until then.” For once, no fear, confusion or trepidation fills the air. He's asleep within the minute. I smile to myself, forcing myself to believe that this will all be ok. And, it will. Right?


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

By the time we finally got back to my new room, I was exhausted. My eyes were burning, and my hands sore from gripping the wheel too hard. As tired as I was, though, John (JoaquinJoaquinJoaquin I reminded myself) had to be ten times worse. Something told me that he hadn't had a good night’s sleep in a while, maybe since he had been brought here.  
I led him into the center of the room, to show him the place that was to be our new home. I took a moment to drink in the sight, though, since the movers had added to the place in my absence. A table had been added to the left, making a sort of “Dining Room” and a strange board had been hung on the wall across from the couch, looking kind of like a chalk board or something. A dozen other small changes had been made also, like the four candles in the corners that apparently provided light to the whole room, but since I hadn't really been here all that long the first time, they didn't really seem all that important. Joh... Joaquin, on the other hand, was very important.  
Smiling, I took a breath in to start giving the meager tour, and turned around so I could look at him. Instead of following me in, though, he had dropped to his knees in front of the door, cloak thrown off, his head almost touching the floor. Typical, I supposed. All in his training, can't help it, yada yada. Still made me sad, despite the rational. I walked over to him and knelt next to him. My nose, still smarting from all the caustic emotions earlier, barely registered his confusion as he realized what I was doing. I reached forward to grip his chin, lifting it so he I could study his face.   
“Alright. We'll go over all of the rules tomorrow, but for now know this. Whenever you come here and enter this room, you are safe. K? Also, you are free of certain restrictions. Kneeling is one of them, as long as you're comfortable with it. Understand?” I told him, hoping to sound patient. I'm not gonna lie, though. I was tired and feeling a bit irritable. Hopefully it didn't show.  
His eyes flickered up to meet mine for a moment, and then he looked down again. Another thought occurred to me.  
“Another restriction that we’re not going to worry about is eye contact. Don't worry if you meet my eyes, alright? I like it, actually. You have beautiful eyes.” So true it broke my heart, but neither statement seemed to have all that much of an effect on him. He still knelt on the floor, disconnected. I sighed and stood up, pulling him with me. “Tell you what. How about we skip the tour and hit the sack, alright? We'll get you into some dry clothes and we can get some shut eye. Follow me.” With that, I turned and walked toward my new bedroom. I knew he would follow me, since I had given him a direct order. Maybe it wouldn't be all bad to exercise some control over him. I just couldn't stifle him. He had a rebellious streak in him, no matter how small. It was part of the reason why we could be such a good pair. So far, though, I hadn't seen any of that fire, none of the impudence that had landed him back at the pens. It worried me slightly, but it wasn't like that would change anything, not really. He was mine forever, whether I liked it or not.  
I walked into my new bedroom and stopped for a moment to take off the wet wool vest. You ever worn wet wool before? Not fun. It hit the new carpet with a plop. My tired ears winced and I picked it up, glad that the water coming out hadn't made a mark on the brand new carpet. I debated changing separately, for modesty's sake, but decided that there really couldn't be all that much privacy between us from now on. Might as well jump in head first, right?  
“Alright. I don't know what I have for you to wear, but I'll figure something out.” I told him, searching the room with blurry eyes for some sort of clothes bin. I found it in the corner. “Here, hand me your shorts.” As I turned to collect them, though, all traces of sleep evaporated.  
He had already stripped out of the thin blue short and the small loin cloth that apparently went underneath and was standing there, staring off into space. In a flash, I registered a couple of things. One: He was still absolutely filthy. With the exception of the brand on his thigh, he had a consistent layer of grey and brown covering him. I needed to get him clean before we went to sleep. Two: The way he stood denoted anything but comfort. Stomach back, shoulders hunched, he was obviously in pain, and I remembered the injuries I had felt earlier. I started a mental list labeled “Joaquin” and added “Doctor” to the top. Three, and most important: Even skinny, broken and filthy; he was abso-fucking-lutely B-E-A-U-tiful. My mouth dried instantly as I drank in the sight, and my heart launched a full scale stack on the inside of my ribcage.  
Back home, John had been an uber-jock, playing all three sports our school had offered (Football, Basketball, Baseball) and either playing passably or, in most cases, excelling. He had always taken pride in his body, never hesitant to show it off, and had nearly killed me from hormone poisoning on more than one occasion. He had been Adonis, the Michael statue, a Greek god in the flesh.  
Even now, as Joaquin, he was beautiful. His hair had been cut short, hugging his skull, which made me sad. He always had such a full head of hair, covering his eyes in the sexiest way. His face was chiseled, all angles and planes, with a strong chin and a birthmark under his left eye. It had always made him look a little more dangerous, and I had witnessed him use it to stare down more than one uppity opponent.   
From there, his pale, smudged skin traveled down over a slender neck, widening out into a pair of lithe shoulders that could pitch a baseball at speeds I still only half believed possible. Even now, His arms showed some definition, as did his chest. He actually wasn't as skinny as I had thought, with his ribs just barely noticeable. His pecs were still built, and his stomach smooth and taught. My stomach flopped as my eyes traveled over the V that framed his abs, not to mention point directly at his...  
I cleared my throat and turned away, face on fire and pants a bit snugger. “Uh... Umm...” I stuttered, trying to find words. I took a deep breath to steady myself and forced myself to turn around. Joaquin had looked up, wondering what had happened. As soon as I met his eyes, though, he dropped his gaze again. My nose picked up a hint of fear.   
I walked over to him, feeling a slight tremor travel through his stomach muscles as I laid a hand on them. “Shhh...” I said, “It's alright. You didn't do anything wrong. I just wasn't prepared for just how beautiful you are.” I laughed a little bit, slipping my hand around to the small of his back. Even without my nose, I could feel the flash of panic that coursed through him, like touching an electrical socket. Suddenly I understood how that sentence would sound from his point of view. I had no ideas how he had been treated up to this point, what he had been made to do, what had been done to him. If it hadn't been for the grayness, I might have broken down right there, crying for him. Instead, I took the cues my chiva was giving me, and instead worked to establish my position.  
“Look,” I sighed, slipping my other hand behind his back, “Like I said before, here you are safe. That includes being safe from doing things you don't want to do, within reason. If anything makes you uncomfortable, just tell me.” My mind raced along that statement, looking for any weaknesses or loop holes that might confuse the truth I was trying to convey. “Actually, I need you to tell me about the things that make you uncomfortable, alright? If you tell me, I can stop it. Or, I may choose not to stop, but in any case you need to tell me. Do you understand?” When he did nothing, I just sighed and moved away. “I suppose we should stop talking about this tonight, eh? You're probably just ready to sleep.”   
That's when it happened. As I turned my back to him, I felt his whole being light up like a Christmas tree, with anger, resentment and annoyance burning hot enough to parch my skin. “Yeah, no shit.” He muttered, in Espania. I spun around, shocked. The fire under his skin disappeared immediately, and I felt panic and fear spread through him. He looked like a deer caught in someone’s headlights, unable to move away from its immanent death. Another Mage might have had him gutted him for such impudence, but I was anything but mad.  
Slowly, I felt a wide grin creep over my face, and a wild giggle started in my chest, finally bursting out as a mad chortle. I laughed, so happy he had some of that spark still, that they hadn't killed the sarcastic, cynical boy I had fallen in love with. Not completely anyway. Joaquin's head snapped up, shocked and afraid at the sudden burst of emotion, and he started to inch away from me, probably expecting some sadistic punishment. Instead of letting him get away, though, I ran to him, tackling him into a hug that brought us to a tumbling stop, me on top of him, laughing; him, buck naked and terrified underneath me. I couldn't help it, though. I was overjoyed that he was still human, still mine. I dropped a big kiss down onto his forehead, laughing and so relieved. After a moment, I realized just how intimate the position we shared was, and how much certain aspects of my body enjoyed it. Besides that, while I may have been enjoying it, Joaquin was scared shitless. So, I stood up, still smiling, and pulled Joaquin to his feet. “Come on. Let's get you cleaned up.”

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

 

After that emotional outburst, my emotions just quit. Not totally, like in the two months when I had first gotten here, but enough to keep me from having another breakdown at the sight of the bathroom. It had running water. Running water!   
You might be saying, “Gee Paul, why is that such a big deal?” Well, I'll tell you why. In the room I had woken up in this morning, and every other morning for a year, Sarin and I had had to lug our water in by hand, in a large bucket, every morning. While you get used to it, and I finally did learn a water conjuring spell, bathing, cooking and cleaning had been a chore.  
I wouldn't have to worry about that anymore though. Finally getting a good look at the bathroom, I seen that they had given me everything I would need.   
The bathtub was big and ovular, about three feet deep, made of some white material- probably ceramic- that shone in the light. It was trimmed with some bronze colored metal, and sported clawed feet that had sunk themselves into the floor. Instead of a regular tap, though, I noticed that it had what looked like a hair brush without the bristles in its place. Upon closer examination, I found that it could be raised up to make the whole thing closer to a shower stall. As the bar raised, a soft glow filled the air. It remained level with the top of the spigot. Hmmm...  
I turned back to Joaquin, who had his eyes closed, swaying on his feet. Despite the fact that the lighting in here was better, produced by a set of bulbs on either wall, and I could see his exquisite figure even better, I wasn't reacting. My chiva had set up camp and was making me all business.  
“Do you think you can wash yourself?” I asked him, “Or would your back hurt too much?” No answer. I sighed. I guess I’d have to help  
“Standing up or sitting down?” I asked him, motioning to the bath. He looked up at me and shrugged. I sighed. “Standing up it is. Get in.”   
After helping him into the tub, I turned the water on, testing it against my skin to make sure it wasn't too extreme. The water came out the perfect temperature right away, though, and I got down to washing away the filth that had covered his skin. I started on his shoulders, and his front. As my hands moved over his skin, followed by the sprayer, he sighed a bit, obviously enjoying the process. I wondered just how long it had been since he had bathed. Underneath it all, though, was a steady undercurrent of anxiety, of fear. Whenever my hands moved closer to his waist, the anxiety would thicken a bit, and by the time I had washed his backside and started to move around to his front, he was shaking. His face was tight, his mouth pressed into a firm line, his eyes clenched shut. I guess it was only reasonable he'd be apprehensive about this first night together, since traditionally this was the night where a Mage ‘marks’ his slave as his. No one had ever told me the specifics of this whole marking business, but I had no doubt that it was anything less than painful.   
While I could have gone without the panic and anxiety slamming into me as I washed the area around his groin, I dealt with it, figuring that there were some things that would just have to be uncomfortable in this whole situation. When I was done, and had shown nothing more than professional interest and care, Joaquin’s gave off a wave of relief so strong I could taste it, rich like milk, or tea. I worked my way down his legs quickly and stood up. I noticed with detached observance that the floor wasn’t wet at all, and no water had been added to the moisture in my clothes. Must be what the glow around the bathtub was, a shower curtain of sorts. Hmmm…  
“Turn your back to me.” I told him, guiding him with my hands, saying, “I’m not gonna lie to you, man. This is probably going to hurt. If it gets too bad, or I’m doing too much, just let me know, alright. When we’re done here, you can get some sleep.” When there was no response from him, I started. Most of the cuts had stopped bleeding, but that changed as I tried to work the dirt out of their edges. Soon the dirty water at the bottom of the tub was tinged pink. I bit my lip, feeling bad, knowing that this had to be less than pleasant for Joaquin. He didn’t make any sounds though, didn’t flinch. Just stood there. I washed the worst of the muck away and turned off the water. “Wait here for a moment, alright? I’m gonna get you a towel.”  
As soon as I said towel, I felt a spell activate behind me. It was gone in a moment, and when I turn around, there were three towels stacked nicely on a stool beside the door. Hmm… Those hadn’t been there earlier. The grayness prevented me from really caring, though, so I just walked over to fetch them and returned to the tub. I handed one to Joaquin, gesturing for him to start. He did, but I noticed how stiffly he moved. He worked over his front, I worked over his back. Soon enough, he was dry.   
“Alright, off to bed. First we gotta find you something to wear, though.” I told him, motioning for him to follow. His eyes were half closed by now, and mine were burning like none other. I knew I wouldn’t last much longer. I crossed to the wardrobe in my room and started rooting around for something to wear. My clothing had made the transfer just fine and I found what I was looking for easily enough. A pair of soft cotton pants and a cotton shirt for me, with the pair of pants that had been a little too small for me and another shirt. Turning around, I found Joaquin leaning against my bed, eyes closed, swaying on his feet. It was officially time for us to sleep. I dropped the clothes on the bed in front of him. “You can wear these tonight, alright? Hope you don’t mind free balling it. We’ll get you some of your own tomorrow. Is that alright?” I asked him. He opened one eye and gave off a sense of confusion. A trickle of annoyance colored my tongue, from me this time. I really didn’t want to do anymore tonight, not unless it involved climbing into bed and pulling the covers up.  
“Look, dude. Just get dressed in these clothes, alright? I’ll be right back, and then I’ll show you your bed. Got it?” Hopefully a direct order would spur him into action. I collected my clothes and went into the bathroom to change. I stripped off my still wet clothing, forgotten about when I had first seen Joaquin naked, and kicked them next to the tub. I quickly tugged on the clothes I’d picked out for myself and reentered my room. Joaquin was standing where I left him, wearing the pants Id given him, but not the shirt, My tired brain registered the negligence but didn’t care. I tugged him toward his room, just off of mine, and motioned to the bed. “That’s your bed, alright? Sleep there. If there’s anything you need, let me know.” I took a breath, irritated at how annoyed I sounded. Calming a bit, I continued. “Sleep as long as you want, alright? Don’t worry about it. Tomorrow, we’ll go over your duties and such. For now, just relax, alright? I’ll see you in the morning.” No reaction, yet again, and I wonder if its exhaustion or apathy that had him ignoring me. Quite frankly, I didn’t care at that point. I left him standing there, next to the bed, and climbed into my bed. I was asleep before I could fully appreciate how nice my new bed was. 

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

I woke up in unfamiliar surroundings, face down in something soft as a cloud. I took a deep breath, my whole body glowing with a total relaxation that I hadn’t felt in… As long as I’d been here. Briefly, I tried to reach across the void that had been placed in front of my old life, as deep and as wide as a solar system. I knew what I’d find though. No matter how hard I stretched, no matter how much I tried, I would come up blank. After a minute of getting nothing but flashes of color and a few broken sounds, I gave up, letting out a huff of breath and getting up to pee.   
After I was done, I went to look out the window. The world was still dark, the sun nothing but a suggestion on the horizon. What the hell? I never wake up early, not since the first few months. Back then, I had been in the midst of trying to figure out everything that had happened, nearly incapacitated by a combination of the spell they had used to teach me a new language, the spell they had used to make me the soldier they had wanted, the expectation to conform to this alien society, and the advent of my empathic abilities. All together, they had combined inside of me, putting my mind under so much stress that it had simply… Shut off. My emotions, my logic, my empathy. Everything. I had been a walking, mumbling zombie for over two months. Back then, the only time my mind had worked had been while I was asleep. Thing was, I couldn’t sleep if there was anyone awake within twenty yards of me. I lived in a Dorm. People were always up, so I was always awake. I’d learned to block out their collective consciousness after a while, until the only one who could wake me up was Sarin, and only when she was physically close. She wasn’t here, though, not this time. It was only me and…  
On a hunch, I went to Joaquin’s room and checked his bed. Nothing. The blankets hadn’t even been touched. Grayness banished by a few hours of sleep, (Somehow I knew it had been three hours) my heart started beating faster. A million thoughts rushed through my mind. Was I dreaming? Had he run? What if they had taken him? Or, worse yet, what him coming home with me had been a dream? I spun around, feeling the first inkling of panic seize me. What could I do? It’s not like I could track him by GPS, and asking for help would decimate my chiva in an instant. I hadn’t even begun to build it up. No, I couldn’t do that. What I could do, though…  
In the middle of my flurry of panic, I heard a noise. It was small noise, just a sniffle, really. It came from the foot of my bed. It took me a moment to figure out what was going on, what with the room still being dark. After a moment, though, I made out a shape kneeling next to my bed. It was pale, folded in half, trembling as it tried to make itself as small as possible. Joaquin. It must have been him that had woken me up. What the hell?  
“Joaquin? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you in bed?” Somehow, despite the fact that I was feeling nothing but relief at him being here and safe, my voice came out as angry, annoyed. He flinched, pulling himself in tighter. I had made it worse. Damn it.  
I crossed over to him and sank down next to him on the floor. I pulled my knees to my chest and sighed. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be an ass. It just sort of… Happens.” I took a deep breath and placed my hand on his exposed side. The muscles underneath twitched a bit, but he didn’t flinch away. “So, why aren’t you asleep?” Nothing. He didn’t move at all. “Why did you come out here? You’ve got a bed in your room. That’s gotta be comfier than kneeling out here, sleep or no sleep. Am I wrong?” I guess I really didn’t expect a reply at that point, but my pestering was rewarded with a nod of the head. Encouraged, I slipped my hand down his side and made a circle, ending up where I had started. I was hoping to be soothing, and since I didn’t catch any negative emotions coming from him, I kept up the motions. His breath, which had been quick and shallow, had begun to deepen and slow. I took this as a good sign.   
“So, what happened then? Nightmares?” A shake of the head. “Too much coffee?” Another shake, this one tinted with disbelief and a touch of annoyance. So, his sense of humor was still a little tarnished. I tried another tactic.  
“Is it that you’re alone? The room’s too quiet?” I ran through a couple more ideas, getting a shake of the head at each. By that point, I had spread the circles my hand had been making from his side all over his healthy skin. He had even started to lean into my touch a bit. “You know, I don’t remember if I told you or not, but I’m an Empath. Do you know what that is?” A shake of the head. “It means I can sense other people’s emotions. When you’re happy, or sad. When you’re angry, or hungry.” He gave off a shade of fear, and made a wide circle across the small of his back. It seemed to calm him. “Another thing about being an Empath that you should know is that it’s hard for me to sleep when another person is awake. I don’t know why, but all the buzzing inside of your head keeps me up. So, you can believe me when I say that I really need you to sleep. For my sake, if not for yours.” He seemed ok with that, so I took a risk and gave him an awkward half hug, slipping my arm under his chest and pulling him towards me. He skin felt amazingly soft, and electricity crackled up my arm. “I think it’s time for you to get back into bed, alright?” He nodded, and I helped him to his feet.   
I walked him to his bedroom, him still hunched over like he was walking through a hurricane. When he had lain down, I pulled the blanket up to his chin and tucked it around his shoulders. For the first time, he met my eyes openly, and didn’t flinch away. He opened his mouth to say something, but only a small airy sound came out. He rolled over, so he was facing away from me.   
“Were you going to say something?” I asked him. He didn’t give me a response. I ran my fingers through his hair slowly and leaned in towards him. “You can tell me. I won’t be mad, I promise.” I kept working my fingers through his hair, and eventually I heard him draw in a huge breath.  
“You weren’t lying, were you?” He asked me, his whisper sounding like it hurt to speak.  
“Lying about what?” I asked him. I had no idea what he was talking about.  
He took another deep breath and let it out. “You weren’t lying about this being a safe place, and you not hurting me, were you?”  
It was my turn to take a breath in. I felt the grayness move in to blanket the emotions that were fighting to be heard. All I did was lean down and lay a kiss on his forehead. Well, I kissed his temple, but still, same effect. “No, I wasn’t lying. You need to sleep, alright? Sleep as long as you need to.” All I wanted was for him to relax, to not worry. I felt him shudder, and then sigh. A calm moved over him, and I thought I tasted something spicy on my tongue, a tingle on my lips. After a moment, the feeling faded and Joaquin was snoring in front of me. I smiled. Maybe this really would be all right.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

 

The next morning, I woke to golden sunshine filtering through the window above my bed. My whole body was relaxed and it felt like I was floating on a cloud. I stretched, feeling my back crack a couple times. Without classes, or drill, my whole day stretched out in front of me, clear and full of I wanted it to be.

            “Ah…” I sighed. “Getting promoted has its perks.” I swung my legs out of bed and padded over to the bathroom. After a moment’s hesitation, I ignored my bladder for a moment and went to check on John. He was still asleep, soundly so by my reckoning. I was relieved, since I had thought he wouldn’t have been comfortable enough to stick to his bed. I had been thinking about that last night, about waking up to him kneeling at the foot of my bed. I had run through all the possible reasons for him to abandon the first real bed he’d seen in a while and what I came up with wasn’t fun. My guess was that he had been believing that I was playing some sick game, and hadn’t wanted to believe. Being an Empath had done nothing for my understanding of people, and without asking him directly, I had no idea what would make him do that. In any case, all I could do was try to make him at home; and what better way than to bribe him to trusting me than with food? I mean, year of torture or not, he was still a 17 year old boy, right?

            I rummaged around in the kitchen awhile, searching for something amazing for breakfast. I was disappointed though, since apparently the movers had brought everything but food. The cupboards were all empty of anything but cooking utensils and the refrigerator (Which made no noise and had no plug) was as bare as Antarctica. Excitement flared briefly as I realized that I had remembered something from my old life, a whole continent, but anything that was attached to the memory fled as quickly as it had come. Oh well… At a loss, I decided to request something from the black box on my counter. Essentially, it was a magical dumbwaiter, a direct line to the kitchens. All you had to do was place your order inside and then wait for the ding. They’d take care of everything else in the Culinary Wing. Obviously, there were size restrictions, but it would work just fine for my purposes.

            When I had prepared my order, I placed it inside of the box and closed the door. Nothing happened at first, but I noticed a slight tremor after a moment. When it did nothing further, I walked away, content to explore my new apartment. I may have been here yesterday, but I hadn’t really had all that much of a chance to look around. I started in the guest room, which was basically a smaller version of my room. Mint green and brown, it had a bed that was just a touch smaller than mine, a dresser and wardrobe, and a tiny bathroom that held nothing but a toilet and a half sized shower stall.

            I still had no idea what the board across from the couch was, and it did nothing when I touched it, so I ignored it for now. That’s when I noticed my package. No, not the one in my pants. I’ve known about that on for a while. The package in question was sitting on my table, wrapped in some sort of waxed fabric and tied with a stiff chord. I picked it up, examining it. It was box-like, the size of a text book, and quite light for its size. It lacked any markings, or ‘return to sender’ information. Just plain and brown. Hmm…

            Returning to the kitchen, I snagged a knife from the top drawer and sliced the chord off of the package. The package opened up easily enough after that, revealing the wooden skeleton of a box, a frame for the paper. I plopped down on the couch to investigate, spreading the contents out on the cushion to my right. A brown envelope, a thin stack of paper and a thick leather collar. The envelope and the papers had the insignia of the Pens stamped onto them, and the collar had my mark etched into the leather. Standard issue for a slave. The papers were a manual for operating the myriad of spells Joaquin would have on his person to keep him well behaved. I was saddened that I have to learn those spells at all, but that’s going to be a necessary part of this next part of my life if I’m to stay alive. The envelope is a mystery, though, so I look that over first.

            A plain brown envelope, the insignia of the Slave Pens (A whip spiraling in towards the center) is stamped on the front. Inside, I found another stack of papers.

            “It’s like a bag inside a bag inside a box inside a bag.” I mutter to myself as I scan the papers. After a moment, it hits me. These are John’s records. They detail everything he’s been through since his capture a year ago. I set them down, standing up and walking away from the couch. I’m not sure if I want to read them. I mean, isn’t that an invasion of privacy for him? I guess, as a slave, he’s probably used to it, expecting it, but still.

            Another part of me is whispering worse things to me. “Maybe you don’t want to know, don’t want to learn all the dirty, terrible things he’s had to do. Maybe this isn’t about him at all, but about you.” I ignored it with a practice that should’ve  shocked me. Instead, I start to pace, and rationalize.

            What did I really want from him? I certainly didn’t want the same thing as everyone else. The last thing I wanted was for John to be a thoughtless husk bent on doing everything I told him to do. I mean, I wanted him to obey me, but not out of fear. Out of affection, maybe? Like, when I ask him to do something, he does it because he wants to please me, not because he’s afraid of displeasing me. Does that make sense?

            Another part of me, _chiva-_ ruled, was raging against this sentiment. It wanted me to master him, own him completely, do anything it took to gain complete, unquestioning obedience from him. This side was harder to ignore, since my _chiva_ had obviously established itself permanently now that I had survived my anniversary. I knew I couldn’t ignore it completely; I knew it would need to have some say in how things went from now on. How to listen to it without losing myself in the process, though. A conundrum.

            But wait. Couldn’t I achieve both goals at the same time? Couldn’t I have his obedience, and his affection? Yes, I might be able to do that. It’s kind of like what Sarin had told me I would be need to do as a part of the Mages Court. Make others like you while making them want to follow you. Hmm… Interesting parallel.

            I would have to pursue the idea, and John’s past, later though. Right then the little black box in the kitchen sang out a very clear “Ding!”. Breakfast was in.

            Eager to distract myself, I hurried into the kitchen to get my order. I grinned as I pulled out the bread, cheese wheel, bacon and eggs. I frowned when the box was empty, though, because I was missing a few of the things I had asked for. On a hunch, I swung the door shut, and was rewarded with an immediate “Ding!” Opening the box once again, I found the missing sugar, salt and butter waiting for me. Whistling to myself, I set about gathering the pots, pans and bowls I would need. I was glad, after the drama of yesterday, to heave a clear cut task that I could perform. I have no idea why, but I’ve always had a thing for mindless busy work, and cooking falls into that category. I love it.

            I cracked six of the eggs into a bowl, mixing in some butter that had I softened with a quick heating rune sketched on the counter. After I had whisked the mixture together, I added a dash of sugar and moved to heat up a pan on the stove (No gas. Just a glowing rune).

In my head, I made a list of the things that had to do in order. I ripped open the paper package of bacon and set the pieces to frying as I heated another pan to cook the bread. I was at an impasse. Either make plain French toast, or French toasted grilled cheese. I decided on the grilled cheese. Cheese makes everything better.

            As I worked, I listened for any sign of movement from John. Nothing so far, and when I snuck a whiff from my room, I smelled nothing but the bland scent of sleep. Good.

            When all the bacon had been cooked and been sufficiently raided by the cook, I poot it aside and started cooing the eggs. As the eggs cooked, I sliced the cheese. It was a beautiful sharp cheddar, perfect for what I needed. When it had been nicely ribboned, I distributed it over the slices of bread, covering the non-cheese sides with the egg mixture. As they fried, I flipped the eggs. It was working pretty smoothly, filling my new apartment with the smells of a home cooked, (hopefully) delicious breakfast. Behind me, I heard a thump and a scuffle and I turned around in time to see John stumbling out of my room, clad in a pair of blue slave shorts, bleary eyed and in the midst of yet another panic attack. I could smell it from across the room. He rushed across the carpet, throwing himself to his knees at the threshold between the carpeted living room and the tiled kitchen. He held himself stock still, and little rivers of fire flowed over my back in response to pain he was apparently feeling.

            I opened my mouth to ask him what was wrong and stopped myself just in time. I had been about to call him John, which would have no doubt sent him further into his spiral of panic. ‘Good catch’ I thought to myself as I walked over to where he was kneeling, dropping to me knees in front of him. His eyes flickered up, confused yet again. I reached out to grip his arm, glad when he didn’t flinch away. “Joaquin? What’s wrong?”

            He shook his head, and his breath came short and shallow. I rubbed small circles into his arm with my thumb. After a moment, he whispered, “I slept too long.”

            I chuckled a bit, hoping to deescalate the situation. “No, you didn’t. Remember, I told you to sleep, and to sleep as long as you wanted.” He nodded his head. He remembered. “Well, why are you afraid right now, then? You didn’t believe me?” He started shaking, and the stench of apprehension rolled off of him. I sensed conflict, a lie being conceived. I squeezed his arm a little tighter and said, “Don’t lie. I know you didn’t believe me.” His panic reared up then, and I felt it close off my throat. I sucked in a breath, pushing his emotion away, and focused on calming him down. “It’s alright. I get it. Why would you believe me? I’m guessing your other owners were less than kind to you. Am I right?” His panic abated a bit, and he nodded. “That’s what I thought. Remember, this is a safe place, in these rooms, with me. Here, you _are_ safe. I promise. Now, can you try to believe me?”

            This seemed to be hard for him. I smelled fear, anxiety, wariness, all swirling around in the air. A hollow ache moved into my stomach, like a where a tooth had been pulled. The edges were still tender. After a moment, I realized it was an attempt at hope. So far, hope had only hurt him, which is why his hope felt like a toothache. I sighed, ready to drop the whole subject. Before I could speak, though, he cut me off. “Yes.” He took a shuddery breath. “I think I can try.” Then, with more confidence, “I’ll try.”

            I smiled, feeling happy. I slid my hand up to his neck and pulled him in so I could kiss his forehead. “That’s all I ask right now. Come on, let’s get you something to eat. You look like you could use it.”

 

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

 

            After convincing him to sit on a stool instead of kneeling on the floor, I gave both of the grilled cheeses to him. He was hesitant at first, eating small bites and chewing excessively. When I dropped a third sandwich on his plate, though, something seemed to break inside of him and he attacked his food. The tiny bites disappeared, replaced by huge fits of mastication that seemed like they should choke him, but somehow didn’t. Any other situation, I might’ve made a joke about his capacity to shove things down his throat, but something told me it wouldn’t be appreciated at this juncture.

            When Joaquin had finished inhaling all three of the sandwiches I’d given to him, I handed him the plate full of bacon. His eyes darted up, surprise tinging his face and scent, and he coughed twice before taking the plate. He set it in front of him, and I felt my throat close up. It wasn’t my emotion, though, and I caught second hand panic. What was wrong? Was he choking after all?

            “Joaquin? What’s wrong? You choking?” I asked him, making sure to stay calm so I didn’t scare more food into his lungs. I had it wrong though, because he shook his head and I heard him huff out a huge breath.

            “No, it’s just that… Is this all for me?” He asked me, voice barely audible. This whole ‘whisper’ business was starting to annoy me. Irritation aside, I replied to his query.

            “Yes, it’s all for you. I had some of the bacon earlier, and I’m making myself a sandwich as we speak. Say, how do you feel about eggs?” I pushed the plate of slightly brown eggs and a fork towards him and turned back to the stove, hoping to hide the pity in my face. I knew he wouldn’t appreciate it.

            “I know they’re a little brown, my bad. They should taste ok, though. Want some cheese to put on top?” I chattered as I flipped my grilled cheese over, listening to the sizzle of the eggs baking and his breathing, hoping to hear something that might clue me into what he was thinking at that point.

            When I turned around, he was stock still, head bent, hands clasped in front of him. He was so rigid, he had started to shake, his muscles screaming for release. I could feel their protest in my own body, and I knew his back was screaming again. I mentally kicked myself for not dealing with that first thing, but ignored that concern for a moment.

            “You ok? It’s been awhile since you’ve gotten this much food, huh?” I asked him, making sure my voice stayed even, matter of fact. Masters don’t show all that much emotion to their slaves. I had to act half way between his expectations and mine.

            He nodded. “Slaves don’t get bacon. We’re not good enough.”

I ignored his comment and said, “Well, feel free to eat as much as you want, alright? It’s not going anywhere.” I smiled at him, and his eyes flickered up to meet mine for a moment. Tentatively, he reached out to pick up a piece of the bacon, still a touch warm. He brought it slowly to his mouth, and just before he went to actually bite down on it, he looked up again, asking for permission. I nodded my head, and he bit down. A grunt escaped his mouth, and I felt the sheer pleasure of the fat, salt and grease rebound from his mouth to mine, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Joaquin froze, happiness tarnished for the moment, and I motioned for him to keep eating. Figuring he might be a little self-conscious, I turned back to the stove, still chuckling to myself. Behind me, the sounds of appreciation continued, and I felt the satisfaction of eating well like the warmth of a fire on my back. I flipped my sandwich onto a plate and, after turning off the stove, turned to where Joaquin had started in on the eggs. Over done or not, he was inhaling them like it was his last supper. I smiled and ripped little pieces off of my French Toasted Grilled Cheese and just watched him eat.

As he worked his way through the rest of the bacon, I looked him over. There was still some dirt behind his ears, and plenty under his fingernails. The creases of his neck were black as sin, and the lines between his muscles of his abdomen had plenty of grime inhabiting them. I guessed I hadn’t done as good of a job last night as I thought. I’d been plenty tired, but I still felt a bit bad. Then, and idea struck me. I knew what we could do next.

I crossed over to the alcove outside my door. Fixed at about chest level was a brown box, about a yard wide by two feet long and deep. It was unremarkable, really. If you lifted the flap on top, you would find the box empty. Above it was a pad of paper, fixed to the wall. A pen was attached, and the first page had some writing on it. I had seen these sorts of workings before, so I was familiar with the process. I ripped the first page off and felt the spell come to life. Grabbing the pen, I started writing on the exposed piece, making a list of the things I would need during the day. After a moment, I heard movement behind me, and felt a presence at my left hip. Joaquin had come to stand behind me, smelling of curiosity and a touch of apprehension. I felt his need to say something, but he couldn’t.

“What’s up?” I asked him. He flinched behind me, and I felt a bit bad.

“What’r you doing?” He asked me. When I turned to look at him, he dropped his eyes to the floor.

I smiled ruefully, forcing myself to not be angry. My _chiva_ was screaming at the fact that he hadn’t obeyed my commands about meeting my eyes. I toned it down a bit, though, and instead turned and gripped his chin gently. “What did I say about meeting my eyes?” I asked him. He said nothing, but his eyes rose to meet mine. I smiled. “That’s better.” Turning back to the pad of paper, I said, “What I’m doing is making a list of supplies that we’ll need today. Any input?”

I felt him shake his head behind me. There was something else, too. Something… Darker. “What’s wrong? If I ask for your opinion, I expect you to give it, you understand?” I turned back to him again, gripping his right shoulder. “Now, any input?” I said, a little more forcefully than I had intended. He flinched and his eyes darted away for a moment, only to come back to meet mine a second later. He shook his head and lowered it. I moved my hands down his arm, trying to push some kind of comfort, or trust, through. I had no idea if it worked or not.

“It’s alright to answer this question, _vale_? There’s no wrong answer.” I assured him. He started to shake again. Something else was wrong, and I smelled… An attempt?  Something odd, something I couldn’t quite identify. “What? What’s wrong? You can tell me, alright?”

He brought his eyes up again, and they shone a bright grey-green, making my heart jump a little bit. He really was damn beautiful. After a moment and what seemed like a gasp, he replied, “I can’t read that language.” With that, he turned away from me, walking back towards the kitchen.

Hmmm… News to me. When I had gotten here, Sarin had implanted the language directly into my head. Not a pleasant ordeal, but a necessary one. I had assumed as much for Joaquin, since he obviously spoke it just fine. I guess whoever had done the language spell on him hadn’t seen a need for him to read. I added that to the list in my head, under Doctor, and continued the list. When I was done, I circled the order and waited a moment. All the sudden, the ink glowed a deep blue and vanished. In its place, a set of runes swam to the surface, murky at first, then gaining distinction. They asked me, in my mind, a few questions. What Guild I was from (The Armory, Programmer Guild), the level of spells I could handle (Level Two as of a month ago), and whether this was a rush order (Not really, but promptness would be appreciated.) When I was done penning my replies, the ink disappeared once again, to be replaced by three simple marks, telling me I’d have to wait about thirty minute for my items. I nodded my head and headed back to the kitchen.

I found Joaquin sitting on the stool he had occupied earlier, staring at the plate in front of him. I sensed he was thinking, a bit of apprehension and a lot of pain coming from his back. Kicking myself again, I circled around behind him to check his lashes.

Still bright red and inflamed, they puffed out a bit from his back and made me wince in sympathy. They had all scabbed over, but I couldn’t imagine how painful it must be just to move. I reached out to touch one, and Joaquin flinched away. “Sorry,” I apologized. I gave a low whistle at the heat I felt emanating from his back. I couldn’t tell if it was the heat of infection, or the heat of the pain. Either way, I wanted it to stop. Fear and pain was not the best way to start this relationship, and it _was_ a relationship I was after, even if it wasn’t a romantic one.

“Not that that would be all that bad, now would it?” One part of my brain asked me. I firmly told it shut up. What I said out loud was, “So, how bad does it hurt?”

All I got by way of a reply was a shrug. This close, I could feel how much it hurt to make even that motion. I sighed, needing a bit more in the way of information. “On a scale of one to ten? Show me on your fingers, k?”

After moment, he held up both his hands, a full five on the left hand, and three on the right. I let out another whistle. An 8. That was bad, especially for him. I had watched him get elbowed while going up for a rebound, hit the ground with a broken nose, and run back out onto the floor two plays later. For him to confess to that much pain was something rather extreme in my book. I sucked in a breath, trying to decide what to do. “Are you still hungry?”

He shook his head no, so I moved on. “Alright, what we’re going to do next is run you a bath. Since I’m guessing you’re no more able to wash yourself now than you were yesterday, I can help you out. Will that work?” I desperately wanted him to say yes, half because I was craving his trust, and half because I just really wanted to get my hands on him again. After a moment, he nodded, and I gave the back of his head a huge smile. “Alright, good. I’ve ordered a healing potion that should help these clear up,” I said, touching his back lightly, “And some other stuff, so we can get you nice and clean, _vale_?” Once again, he nodded, and I reached out to touch his shoulders. He was still far too tense, and my fingers itched to try and massage some of that tension away, but at that moment someone knocked on the door.

“What the hell?” I muttered to myself as I went to answer the knock. No one really ever came to visit me except Kili, Kike and Sarin, and Sarin was the only one who really knew where my room was. I wasn’t expecting anyone.Going to the door, I noticed a peep hole that I sweat hadn’t been there earlier, set perfectly at eye level. Looking through it, I was met with a bright smile and blonde hair. Sarin, peppy as usual. I smiled and threw open the door.

Sarin grinned at me and stepped into my apartment, chipper and full of energy as always, but I knew something was off at once. She met my eyes like a good friend would, hers dull, mine smiling, but instead of the usual attackle-hug greeting I was accustomed to, she simply marched right on in, dropping the bad she had slung over her should onto the floor just inside and spinning around in the center of the room. She stopped facing me, and said, “Well, well, well. Looks like Paul got himself a new toy. Very nice.”

‘New toy?’ I thought to myself, ‘What is she talking about?’

Apparently reading my thoughts, Sarin clicked her tongue at me and said, her voice curiously accusatory, “Your new toy? Your slave? I hear tell that instead of buying a well-trained, obedient slave, you went and bought yourself a rebel. Now, is that really all that smart of you? Hmm?” Her face stayed fixed in the same bright position, but I heard something distinctly malicious in her voice. I had been around Sarin enough to know that she was angry, even if she was making an effort to hide it. Alarm bells started to go off in my brain, and my _chiva_ was telling me to evade blame and pump for information about my transgression. I ignored it for the moment and tried the logical next step.

Closing the door, I walked into the living room and stopped about three meters away from Sarin. “Yeah, I guess I did, but you’re the one who told me…” Told me to buy the slave in my visions. That was how I was planning on finishing the sentence, but Sarin cut me off.

“Do you know how much energy it takes to keep a well-trained slave obedient at all times? No? Well it’s ten times as hard to control a wild one. Why do you think personal-slaves are bred, not captured. They’re born for it, made for you, made to obey you. It’s not in your best interest to buy some maverick Import on a whim, just because you seem to recognize him and have some misplaced juvenile crush on him. I mean, were you thinking at all? With the brain in your head, I mean, not the one in your pants.” Her face had kept the same pleasant expression and it almost seemed like she was joking, but the edge on her voice had intensified and the eye contact she was making with me had surpassed the ‘I’m comfortable with you’ level and crossed right into the ‘challenge’ zone. At the prodding, my _chiva_ flared up, ready to help me defend myself. This time, I let it.

I felt a smile flicker onto my face, and my eyes went cold. My mind filtered out emotion, and I became detached, business-like. “Now, Sarin, I’m not entirely sure what about this situation has you angry, so let’s recap, shall we?” I said, my voice level and even, words carefully enunciated, body language cordial. Rather than snap my eyes away and admit defeat, I slid my eyes behind her head and then turned and began to pace, using that as an excuse to look elsewhere without giving ground.

“So, yesterday, without any advanced warning, you informed me that I was to purchase the slave of my choice, one that would fulfill my needs here as an adult member of the Guild, am I correct?” I stopped my pacing long enough to turn and look at her, meeting her eyes as I awaited her reply. She nodded once, a short, curt thing. I continued.

“Then, you sent me by myself, with no prior knowledge of what to look for in a slave, to the nearest slave pens, expecting me to pick out a slave to be my assistant in the future, and to perform tasks that I still have no idea the full extent of. Do I still have it right?” I stopped once again, and behind her stiff expression, I seen a flicker of… Anger? Shock? I registered another set of emotions in the room and realized that Joaquin had dropped to his knees next to the stool and had his head bowed to the floor. I crossed over to him and put my hand on his shoulder, rubbing circles in with my thumb. He rose a bit to meet my hand.

“Finally, now you’re here to criticize me for buying the slave that you told me to buy, the one that I had seen in my visions, the one who obviously would be a good match for me. Now, tell me, dear mentor, do I have all of this right?” I continued to rub tiny circles into Joaquin’s skin as I awaited a reply, breathing a little too quickly and staring at my friend with a calm, furious stare. After a moment, Sarin nodded, and I let out a huff of breath.

“Than why, _mi amiga,_ are you angry with me? Isn’t this exactly what you wanted, what I need? A handsome slave to make me look good? An Import, no less, making him a bargain at any price, bought for a fraction of the usual price. Isn’t that the best way to start build my _chiva_?” I walked towards Sarin, motioning for Joaquin to follow. He did, on his hands and knees, which should have been offended me, but I wasn’t paying enough attention to correct him.

Sarin crossed her arms and lifted her chin, defying my logic. It annoyed me. “Yes, you’re right. All of that is good for ones _chiva_ ; you’ve got that right. Only if you can control him, though.” She cocked her head to the side. “I looked into his file, before they delivered it to you. He’s been nothing but trouble since they imported him. Not exactly what would be recommended for a first time Owner, especially one who has no idea the kinds of stresses being magically bonded to a slave can put on a person. I mean, have you even read through the manual they sent to you?” A valid question, but my pride bristled anyway. I had no idea what she was talking about, with the ‘magical bonds’ and such, but that wasn’t going to stop me from defending myself.

“No, I haven’t. Haven’t really had the time, now have I?” I reached down to run my fingers through Joaquin’s short, stubbly hair. He was shaking a bit, and once more I attempted to calm him with a touch. I felt a warmth in my hand, and I swear he sighed. After a moment, the trembling stopped, and I returned my attention to Sarin. “And since when have I ever done anything except excel at anything and everything you’ve thrown at me?” I sneered at her, half horrified that I was speaking this way to my mentor, half excited that I felt like I was gaining the upper hand.

Sarin tossed her hair out of her eyes in an aggravated way and looked away, past me. She had broken eye contact, and my _chiva_ crowed. She sucked in a breath and spat it out. “Alright. You got me there. You’re absolutely right.” She brought her eyes back to where they met mine. This time, they weren’t angry, or annoyed, or accusatory. No, I couldn’t read these eyes, and for some reason, I wasn’t getting any emotions off her. I rubbed the top of Joaquin’s head, feeling the reassurance it brought him like a cool pillow on my face.

            “You’re absolutely right, you know?” She continued, “You’ve done nothing but surprise us since you got here.” And then she smiled, a radiant smile like none other. “And now, you’ve passed another test with flying colors.” She laughed, a beautiful, bright, bubbly sound and threw herself at me. In a moment, my _chiva_ shattered. If it hadn’t been for a year of conditioning to this sort of greeting, I might have been knocked over. Heck, I was so surprised at this bi-polar switch that you probably could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Sarin threw her arms around my neck and planted a kiss on my cheek.

            “See, I told you you’d find your _chiva._ It’s a part of all magekin.” She kissed me on the other cheek, by the corner of my mouth, and stepped back. “Sorry I had to do that, but I needed to find out how ready you were for the ups and downs of the Mages Court. There, who knows who’s really your friend and how long that friendship will last.” She giggled, and I tightened my hold on Joaquin’s hair, then released it again as I realized I was probably hurting him.

So it had all been an act? A test? I guess I’d passed, but still. I couldn’t decide whether to be happy at passing or mad at Sarin. I ignored both. “So that was all just to test my… Social skills?” I asked, still a bit unconvinced. Sarin nodded, biting her lip like it was the funniest thing in the world. I sighed. Down by my feet, I could smell fear and anxiety, nearly a panic. I wondered how much of this exchange Joaquin had understood. He had probably figured out Sarin was ripping on him, but who knows if he’d figured out it was only in jest, or whatever. I gave Sarin a look and knelt down next to him.

            I ran my left hand up and down his arm and my right hand lifted his chin. I winced as a bolt of pain danced its way down my back. “Hey. Hey, look at me.” His eyes rose up. I smiled, trying to be reassuring. “It’s alright, ok? She was just playing. You’re fine with me. Remember, you’re safe here.” I felt a little silly, and a bit odd, saying it in front of Sarin, but I ignored that because it seemed to help Joaquin. The fear disappeared. I squeezed his arm and stood up, letting my hand fall back on top of his head.

            Sarin had recrossed her arms. She popped an eyebrow, and her expression practically dripped sarcasm. “Cute. Been playing house with your pet, I see.” I gave her a bland look. She apparently got the message, because she threw her hands up in an ‘I give’ motion and smiled. “So, care to show off your new pet?”

            I bristled at the term, but ignored it. It was something I would probably have to get used to after all. From the lack of reaction from Joaquin, he already _was_ used to it. The idea made me sad.

            I walked up behind him, feeling possessive, and placed my hands on his shoulders. “Arms up.” I whispered in his ear. With a wince, his arms came up, ending up parallel to the floor. Over his shoulder, I smiled at Sarin. “You like?”

            She had bent one arm up to grip her chin in a rather critical pose. After a moment, she stepped forward and began to run her hands over his skin. An eyebrow popped up. “He’s a bit grimy, don’t you think?”

            I rolled my eyes, wrapping my arms around him, carefully avoiding his back. “Well, we haven’t exactly had time to do a thorough washing, now have we? We just finished breakfast.”

            She walked around us, sizing him up, continuing her exam with her hands. “He can lower his arms. Will you step away?” She asked me. I obliged. When she got to his back, a look of shock crossed her face. “Did you do this?” She gestured to the lacerations.

            I shook my head, frowning. “No. This is what they were doing to him when I arrived.” I sighed. “They wouldn’t give me a reason, either. Just that they were ‘reminding him of his place.’ They were all jerks…” The memory still angered me. Looking at the bruised and broken skin of his back, the anger from yesterday snapped back into place and the greyness swooshed in to sweep it away.

            “Yeah. That’s how it goes, unfortunately. I don’t agree with it, but a lot of the pen Keepers think that slaves with an attitude need to be kept hobbled like this, to keep them docile. I think you should wait for them to screw up, but that’s just me.”

            ‘I wouldn’t whip them at all, but that’s just me.’ A snarky voice inside my head said. Sarin pooped an eyebrow, once again reading my mind somehow. I just shrugged and looked away.

            She reached up to grip Joaquin’s shoulders, twisting him left and right. I could feel his back smart, but he didn’t react. “He’s strong, I’ll give you that. After a good scrubbing, and after his back heals, he’ll be a fine boy to have at your heels.” She turned back to me, smiling. Her eyes, as usual, looked at my face, but didn’t see anything.

            “So he passes your inspection, Lady Sarin?” I said, adding a dash of sarcasm.

            “A few more questions and then yes.” She moved around Joaquin until she was facing him. Lifting his chin, she pinned him with her gaze. I’d never been unnerved by it, but I’d seen it wreak havoc on plenty of the uppity servants I’d dealt with in the past.  I seen his gaze flicker up, and then away. Sarin’s eyes chased his, and he was equally as quick to flee.

            I moved behind him, running my hands over his shoulder and down his chest, whispering in his ear, “It’s alright. You can meet her eyes. She’s a friend.”

            Sarin propped an eyebrow at me again, and I caught a whiff of displeasure. My _chiva_ smarted. I had undermined her position with a slave, but he was _my_ slave. I ignored her disapproval.

            “Go on.” I reiterated to Joaquin. Sarin’s eyes moved from mine to Joaquin’s, and I traced small circles on his chest.

            “So,” Sarin began, “What have you been trained in?”

            With my arms around him like this, I could feel everything he was feeling. My back hurt, twitching and protesting. There was a crick in my neck, and my ribs hurt. My pinky finger felt like it may be dislocated, and the muscles in my lower back throbbed.

            Beyond that, I was registering his emotions in a totally new way. They moved through my mind as my own would have. Somehow, I knew what was mine and what was his. I could feel his disorientation at being here, his disbelief at my kindness, the pleasure he felt in me being this close, and the confusion of whether or not he should let himself trust me. I rested my chin on his neck, careful to not make any of his infirmities hurt worse. I felt the breath he pulled in, the way it made the aching ribs protest, and how it filled his lungs to capacity.

            “I’ve been trained in everything a personal-slave would need to know, as well as most of what they teach a body-slave.” I felt how, even though his voice was barely audible, the effort required made his throat sting and smart, like a bad bought of influenza, and how much air it took to put forth that much effort. I sighed into his neck.

            Sarin nodded, but apparently wasn’t satisfied with the answer. "Can you perform personal care?”

            Joaquin nodded.

            “Out loud, boy.” Sarin’s voice was a bit sharp, which surprised me. Joaquin trembled a bit, so I gave his shoulder a squeeze, hoping to encourage him. All I managed to do was make him wince.

            Another deep breath, and another pop of pain in his throat. “Yes.”

            “Do you know how to assist at a social function?”

            “Yes.”

            “Yes what?”

`           “Yes ma’am.”

            I sighed. As far as I was concerned, Sarin was being far too harsh.  I had never owned a slave before, though. I really had no idea what they needed to know, so I let her continue. At the same time, I was mindful of his throat, since with each reply Joaquin’s throat grew a little tighter. Consequently, mine hurt a bit more. I felt my hands tighten in discomfort, but I relaxed them just as quickly. I had to keep my head.

            “What about cooking? Are you trained in the full gamit of dishes for an active Mage?”

            “Yes Ma’am.” Joaquin’s throat had started to throb with each heartbeat. Mine twitched in my throat.

            “What about bedroom training? You said you have some training as a body-slave.”

            I felt Joaquin’s dread at speaking again. I almost voiced a complaint to Sarin but ended up biting my tongue. It may make me a terrible person, but I was honestly curious to what he would say. What can I say? I’m a horny bastard.

I felt Joaquin brace himself for the pain in his throat as he made to answer, and his misgivings about admitting these things to a lady who was not his Master. I winced with him. “Yes Ma’am. I have been taught.” Try as he might, his voice came out as nothing more than a ghost of what it should have been. I felt Sarin about to request a better reply and cut her off.

            “He said yes, he’s been taught.” I forced my voice to stay light, betraying none of my annoyance and possessiveness towards him. At least, I tried to keep those things out of my voice. Sarin, having played this game far longer than I, picked up on it immediately.

            “What, he can’t speak for himself?” Her voice was bright, like mine, and I failed to detect any malice behind the words. I let myself believe she was back to being happy and silly again, without hidden threats, even if part of me was still wary.

            I shook my head. “Kind of. See, they put a whisper spell on him at the pens. It makes it hard for him to speak, even painful. The more his throat hurts, the more mine hurts. I’m just saving myself some pain.” I moved my right hand up to rest lightly on his larynx, wishing I could ease some of the pain. I surprised both of us when some of the ache disappeared. I ran small circle onto the spot, loving the feeling of Joaquin leaning into the touch. Briefly, I entertained the idea of trying to soothe his back, but ignored it. I could fix that problem in a bit.

            Sarin narrowed her eyes. She seemed to scrutinize us for a moment. Her eyes flickered all around us, never really looking _at_ us, and then she shrugged and turned away. “He passes my test. We’ll see if he’s as popular at Court. That’s the test that counts.” Criticisms delivered, her usual pep returned. She bounced over to the couch, dropping herself onto it. She stretched herself out, obviously feeling right at home. She was comfortable enough to push all of my papers onto the floor in any case. I gave Joaquin one last gentle squeeze and walked over to a chair, seating myself. I felt the intense connection between us fade with the distance and it left me with a distinctly cold feeling.  

            After a moment, Joaquin followed me. He hesitated about three feet away from me, clearly confused as to what he should do. I felt his conflict. After the connection before, however brief, I felt I could read him a little better. He didn’t know whether to stand, sit, or kneel, I guessed. Acting on my hunch, I motioned to the floor to the left of the chair. Joaquin dropped to his knees quickly, relieved to be in a familiar place. I rested my hand on top of his head, kneading his hair softly. It was a bit stiff, still far too short for my liking, but still pleasant to touch. I did a quick assessment of Joaquin’s emotions, and he didn’t seem to mind the contact, even if it didn’t thrill him. He seemed a bit hesitant still, and it muddled my reading. I was brought back to reality by the feeling of eyes on me. Sarin had fixed me with her unnatural stare, and for the first time, it kind freaked me out.

            “What?” I asked her. She shook herself, like I had woken her from a daydream or something.

            “Nothing. I’m just trying to decide whether or not you’ve marked him or not. Seems like you have, but I can’t see a bond.” She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. “So, have you marked him?”

            I sighed, exasperated. This whole ‘marking’ business again. I still had no idea what it was. I said as much to Sarin, adding that, without knowledge of the process, I couldn’t know whether or not I had done it. She just laughed at me.

            “No need to get huffy with me, I was just curious. As to what marking is, it’s different for everyone. You’ll know when it happens, though. It’ll be… Interesting to see what happens with you.” She giggled, like she’d told me some great joke. Behind us, I heard a bell toll, deep and resonant. I whipped my head around, jarring Joaquin a bit. I hissed at the sympathetic pain I felt. Ignoring it for a moment, I asked Sarin what the sound had been.

            She rolled her eyes. “That’s the request box, silly. You put in an order before I got here, remember?”

            “Oh yeah.” I said, my mind returning to the task on my mind: easing Joaquin’s discomfort. “Yeah, I had been just about to give Joaquin a proper bath. Get all the grime off of him and such. I ordered some healing powder too, since he’s got a whole slew of problems that need treatment. I figured a blanket healing would be a good thing to do, to hold him over until I can get him to a Doctor.”

            Sarin nodded. “To a Vet, you mean. We’ve talked about this. Slaves go to the Vet, not to the Doctor.” I rolled my eyes, ignoring what was, unfortunately, a fact in Mitaen. “That’s a good idea, though. Can’t have him in that shape tonight after all. It might give your guests the wrong idea.”

            That brought me up short. “Guests?” What?

            Sarin giggled and jumped up off the couch. She took a bow, informing me, “I took the liberty of inviting those friends over, tonight at six, so they could see your new digs and admire the pretty bird you brought home.” Her face went serious, and she said. “Also, you need to have your position as an apprentice recognized by your peers. This is the first step.”

            That made sense, I guess. “Would’ve been nice to have some warning, though.” I muttered. Sarin ignored me, circling around to the back of the couch.

            “I should go, though. You’re gonna need the rest of the day to prepare, what with the cooking, and the shopping, and that bath of course.” At the last suggestion, she waggled her eyebrows at me. It wasn’t her insinuation that caught my attention, though.

            “Shopping? What for?” I asked, increasingly aware of just how much discomfort and, honestly, agony Joaquin was in. As I continued to card Joaquin’s hair, I began to get a little desperate to end this conversation. I needed Sarin to answer my question first, though.

            Sarin rolled her eyes at me, and when she answered, it was with the ‘duh’ tone that meant that this should be perfectly obvious to me. “Lots of stuff. Table settings, curtains, proper silverware, clothing for your boy. All the essentials.” She turned to go, but I had another question to ask.

            “What? Who’s paying for all this?” I asked. Up to this point, all expenditures outside of a food budget and a toiletry budget had to be approved by my _Abuelo_ , the man who was supposed to be responsible for making me feel at home here, as well as manage my accounts. The things I had ordered this morning had come from the aforementioned budgets, or at least I had thought they had.

            Once again, Sarin rolled her eyes at me. “Your Lady takes care of all those things, silly. They’ve got you under her umbrella, so just go crazy. She’ll pick up the tab.”

            That caught my attention. I stood up, moving towards Sarin. “You know who my Lady is?” It had been something I had been pondering since long before yesterday. I was dying to know who she was. She was to be my primary teacher over the next two years, as well as in charge of pretty much every aspect of my life.

            Sarin smiled a sadistic smile and said, “All in good time.” Dancing away from me, she made a move for the door. “Now, I really must go. You need time to yourself, and I have other, more _important_ things to do, thank you very much.” She waited at the door, arms held out. I walked into her embrace, disregarding my annoyance. I gave her a quick squeeze.

            “Guess I’ll see you at six, then?” I asked her. She nodded. “Alright. See you then.” I smiled, and she planted a kiss on the corner of my mouth.

            “Bye!” She crowed, shooting away down the hall. Sighing, I closed the door.

            In her absence, the apartment felt quiet, empty. It was soundless, which was how I heard Joaquin’s breath from clear across the room. It was labored and scratchy, like he had run a few miles. As I focused on the sound, I got a flash of all of his problems, all at once. It was anything but pleasant. Clicking my tongue, I opened the request box and gathered all of the items out of it. Finally, I could deal with Joaquin’s discomfort, maybe erase the mark of the pens off of his skin, if not on his mind.

            Crossing to the bathroom, I called behind me, “Come here Joaquin.” When he appeared in the doorway, wincing and stiff, I asked him, “You ready for a proper bath?” He nodded, and I started the water running. Smiling at him, I tested the water with my hand. My body ached with him, and all I wanted was for him to relax, to stop hurting.

            I guess I’d have to help him out.


End file.
